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"s^mis 


BDITBD   BT 


BON  6AUI(TIE1. 


A  NEW  EDITION,  WITH  SEVERAL    NEW  BALLADS 


80itt)  illustrations. 


NEW  YORK 
W.    J.    WIDDLETON 

SrOOEBSOB    TO    J.    S.    KEBFIELD 

18  6  2 


CONTENTS. 


$;anis^  faliaiis. 


PAG  I 

THE  BROKEN  PITCHEE 11 

DON  FERNANDO  G0MER8A1EZ :  FEoii  TH»  Spasish— o»  Astley's,    14 
THE  COURTSHIP  OF  OUR  CID 26 


glmnitan  §allabs. 

THE  FIGHT  "WITH  THE  SNAPPING  TURTLE,  OR  THE  AMERI- 
CAN ST.  GEORGE:— 

Ftttk  Fibst    ........  80 

Fttte  Secot)       .......  88 

THE  LAY  OF  MR.  COLT: 

Steeak  the  FiKST  ......  87 

Streak  the  Second  ......  89 

THE  DEATH  OF  JABEZ  DOLLAR 48 

THE  ALABAMA  DUEL 47 

THE  AMERICAN'S  APOSTROPHE  TO  BOZ  .  .  .  61 


▼i  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

THE  STUDENT  OF  JENA 66 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  LEVITE 60 

BUKSCII  GROGGENBUEG 69 

NIGHT  AND  MORNING 6« 

THE  BITEE  BIT «8 

THE  CONVICT  AND  THE  AUSTRALIAN  LADT                      .  71 
THE    DOLEFUL    LAY    OP    THE    HONORABLE    L    O. 

UWIN8 74 

THE  KNYGHTE  AND  THE  TAYLZEOUR'S  DAUGHTER       .  79 

THE  MIDNIGHT  ATISIT 83 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  LOVELORN 87 

MY  WIFE'S  COUSIN 96 

THE  QUEEN  IN  FRANCE:  an  anoieht  Soottish  Ballad:— 

Pakt  1 99 

Pakt  II 104 

THE  MASSACRE  OF  THE  MACPHERSON :  ntOM  ths  Gaxlio     .  105 

THE  STOCKBROKER'S  BRIDE  ......  112 

THE  LAUREATES'  TOURNEY:— 

FVTTE  THE   FiBST  .......  115 

Fttts  thb  Second    .......  119 

THE  ROYAL  BANQUET  128 

THE  BARD  OF  ERINS  LAMENT 12T 

THE  LAUREATE 129 

A  MIDNIGHT  MEDITATION 182 

MONTGOMERY :  a  Poem 185 

THE  DEATH  OF  SPACE 138 

LITTLE   JOHN    AND    THE    BED   FRIAR:     a   Lat   of    Bhxr- 
ttood:— 

Ptttb  thk  Fibst        ...*...  141 

Ftttb  thb  Sbooitd           ......  144 

THE  RHYME  OF  SIR  LAUNCELOT  BOGLE  .  •  .  .150 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  LOVER'S  FRIEND       ....  162 

FBANCESCA  DA  RIMINI 166 

THE  CADI'S  DAUGHTER:  a  Legend  or  the  Bospbobub  .       .  163 


CONTENTS.  vii 
MI8CELLANKOUS  BALLADS  (oowrnnjMJ)  :— 

PAOK 

EASTERN  SERENADE ITl 

THE  DEATH  OP  DUVAL 178 

THE  DIRGE  OP  THE  DRINKER 173 

DAME  PREDEGONDE .181 

THE  DEATH  OP  ISHMAEL 185 

PARR'S  LIPE  PILLS 1ST 

TARQUIN  AND  THE  AUGUR 189 

LA  MORT  D'ARTHUR 191 

JUPITER  AND  THE  INDIAN  ALE 192 

THE  LAY  OP  THE  DOUDNEY  BROTHERS  ,  .  .  .194 

PARIS  AND  HELEN 197 

SONG  OP  TILE  ENNUYE 200 

CAROLINE  .           .           •           .           .           .           .           .           .  202 

TO  A  PORGET  MENOT 205 

THE  MISHAP 207 

COMPORT  IN  AFPLICTION 209 

THE  INVOCATION 211 

THE  HUSBAND'S  PETITION 2U 


Come,  buy  my  lays,  and  read  them  if  yoii  ""^st; 

My  pensive  public,  if  you  list  not,  buy. 

Come,  for  you  know  me.     I  am  he  who  sung 

Of  Mister  Colt,  and  I  am  he  who  framed 

Of  Widdicomb  the  mild  and  wond'rous  song. 

Come,  listen  to  my  lays,  and  you  shall  hear 

How    Wordsworth,    battling    for    the    laureate  J 

wreath. 
Bore  to  the  dust  the  terrible  Fitzball ; 
How  N.  P.  Willis,  for  his  country's  good, 
In  complete  steel,  all  bowie-knived  at  point. 
Took  lodgings  in  the  Snapping  Turtle's  mouth. 
Come,  listen  to  my  lays,  and  you  shall  hear 
The  mingled  music  of  all  modern  bards 
Floating  aloft  in  such  peculiar  strains. 
As  strike  themselves  with  envy  and  amaze ; 
For  you  "  bright-harped  "  Tennyson  shall  sing . 
Macaulay  chant  a  more  than  Roman  lay ; 
And  Bulwer  Lytton,  Lytton  Bulwer  erst, 
Unseen  amidst  a  metaphysic  fog. 
Bawl  melancholy  homage  to  the  man  : 
For  you  once  more  Montgomery  sha.l  rave 
In  all  his  rapt  rabidity  of  rhyme; 
Nankeen'd  Cockaigne  shall  pipe  his  puny  note, 
And  our  Young  England's  penny  trumpet  b'  3w. 


SPANISH  BALLADS. 


€)^  %ubn  f  itrjrer. 


It  was  a  Moorish  maiden  was  sitting  by  a  well, 

And  what  the  maiden  thought  of,  I  cannot,  cannot  tell, 

When  by  there  rode  a  valiant  knight  from  the  town  of 

Oviedo — 
Alphonzo  Guzman  was  he  hight,  the  Count  of  Desparedo. 

"  Oh,  maiden,  Moorish  maiden  1  why  sitt'st  thou  by  the 

spring  ? 
Say,  dost  thou  seek  a  lover,  or  any  other  thing  ? 
Why  gazest  thou   upon   me,  with  eyes   so  large  and 

wide. 
And   wherefore   doth   the   pitcher  lie   broken   by  thy 

sider' 

"  I  do  not  seek  a  lover,  thou  Christian  knight  so  gay, 
Because  an  article  like  that  hath  never  come  my  way ; 
And  why  I  gaze  upon  you,  I  cannot,  cannot  tell. 
Except  that   in   your  iron  hose   you  look   uncommon 
swell. 


12  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

*'  My  pitcher  it  is  broken,  and  this  the  reason  is, — 

A  shepherd  came  behind  me,  and  tried  to  snatch  a  kiss , 

I  would  not  stand  his  nonsense,  so  ne'er  a  word  I 

spoke, 
But  scored  him  on  the  costard,  and  so  the  jug  was 

broke. 

"  My  uncle,  the  Alcayd^,  he  waits  for  me  at  home, 
And  will  not  take  his  tumbler  until  Zorayda  come. 
I  cannot  bring  him  water — the  pitcher  is  in  pieces — 
And  so  I'm  sure  to  catch  it,  'cos  he  wallops  all  hia 
nieces." 

"Oh,  maiden,  Moorish  maiden!    wilt  thou   be   ruled 

by  me ! 
So  wipe  thine  eyes  and  rosy  lips,  and  give  me  kisses 

three; 
And  I  '11  give  thee  my  helmet,  thou  kind  and  courteous 

lady. 
To  carry  home  the  water  to  thy  uncle,  the  Alcayde." 

He  lighted  down  from  off  his  steed — he  tied  him  to  a 

tree — 
He  bowed  him  to  the  maiden,  and  took  his  kisses  three : 
"To  wrong  thee,  sweet  Zorayda,  I  swear  would  be  a 

sin !" 
He  knelt  him  at  the  fountain,  and  he  dipped  his  helmet  in. 

Dp  rose  the  Moorish  maiden — behind   the  knight  she 

steals. 
And  caught  Alphonzo  Guzman  up  tightly  V)y  the  heels  ; 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 


13 


She  tipped  him  in,  and  held  him  down  beneath  the  bub- 
bling water, — 

"  Now,  take  thou  that  for  venturing  to  kiss  Al  Hamet'a 
daughter !" 

A  Christian  maid  is  weeping  in  the  town  of  Oviedo ; 
She  waits  the  coming  of  her  love,  the  Count  of  Desparedo. 
I  pray  you  all  in  charity,  that  you  will  never  tell. 
How  he  met  the  Moorish  maiden  beside  the  lonely  well. 


14  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


Dan  /Btaanto  #ninfr3alB|. 

FBOM  THE   SPANISH   OP   ASTLEy's, 

Don  Fernando  Gomkrsalez  !   basely  have  they  borne 

thee  down ; 
Paces   ten   behind   thy   charger   is   thy  glorious  body 

thrown ; 
Fetters  have  they  bound  upon  thee — iron  fetters  fast 

and  sure ; 
Don  Fernando  Gomersalez,  thou  art  captive  to  the  Moor ! 

Long  within  a  sable  dungeon  pined  that  brave  and  noble 

knight, 
For  the  Saracenic  warriors  well  they  knew  and  feared 

his  might; 
Long  he  lay  and  long  he  languished  on  his  dripping  bed 

of  stone, 
Till  the  cankered  iron  fetters  ate  their  way  into  his  bone. 

On  the  twentieth  day  of  August — 't  was  the  feast  of 

false  Mahound — 
Came  the  Moorish  population  from  the  neighljoring  cities 

round ; 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  15 

There  to  hold  their  foul  carousal,  there  to  dance  and 

there  to  sing, 
And  to  pay  their  yearly  homage  to  Al-Widdicomb,  the 

King! 

First  they  wheeled  their  supple  coursers,  wheeled  them 

at  their  utmost  speed, 
Then  they  galloped  by  in  squadrons,  tossing  far  the  light 

jereed ; 
Then  around  the  circus  racing,  faster  than  the  swallow 

flies. 
Did  they  spurn  the  yellow  saw-dust  in  the  rapt  specta 

tors'  eyes. 

Proudly  did  the  Moorish  monarch  every  passing  warrior 

greet. 
As  he  sat  enthroned  above  them,  with  the  lamps  beneath 

his  feet ; 
"  Tell  me,  thou  black-bearded  Cadi !  are  there  any  in 

the  land. 
That  against  my  janissaries  dare  one  hour  in  combat 

stand  ?" 

Then  the  bearded  Cadi  answered — "  Be  not  wrotn,  my 

lord,  the  King, 
If  thy  faithful  slave  shall  venture  to  observe  one  little 

thing; 
Valiant,  doubtless,  are  thy  warriors,  and  their  beards 

are  long  and  hairy. 
And  a  thunderbolt  in  battle  is  each  bristly  janissary : 


16  THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

"  But  I  cannot,  O  my  sovereign,  quite  forgot  that  fearful 

day, 
When  I  saw  the  Christian  army  in  its  terrible  array  ; 
When  they  charged  across  the  footlights  like  a  torrent 

down  its  bed. 
With  the  red  cross  floating  o'er  them,  and  Fernando  at 

their  head ! 

"  Don  Fernando  Gomersalez !   matchless  chieftain  he  in 

war. 
Mightier  than   Don   Sticknejo,   braver   than    the    Cid 

Bavar ! 
Not  a  cheek  within  Grenada,  O  my  King,  but  wan  and 

pale  is, 
When  they  hear  the  dreaded  name  of  Don  Fernando 

Gomersalez !" 

"  Thou  shalt  see  thy  champion,  Cadi !  hither  quick  the 

captive  bring !" 
Thus  in  wrath  and  deadly  anger  spoke  Al-Widdicomb, 

the  King ; 
"  Paler  than  a  maiden's  forehead  is  the  Christian's  hue  I 

ween, 
Since  a  year  within  the  dungeons  of  Grenada  he  hath 

been  !" 

Then  they  brought  the  Gomersalez,  and  they  led  the 

warrior  in, 
Weak  and  wasted  seemed  his  body,  and  his  face  was 

pale  and  thin  ; 


THE    BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  17 

But  the  andent  fire  was  burning,  unallayed,  within  his 

eye, 
And  his  step  was  proud  and  lately,  and  his  look  was 
stern  and  high. 

Scarcely  from  tumultuous  cheering  could  the  galleried 

crowd  refrain, 
For  they  knew  Don  Gomersalez  and  his  prowess  in  the 

plain ; 
But  they  feared  the  grizzly  despot  and  his  myrmidons 

in  steel, 
So  their  sympathy  descended  in  the  fruitage  of  Seville. 

"  Wherefore,  monarch,  hast  thou  brought  me  from  the 

dungeon  dark  and  drear. 
Where  these  limbs  of  mine  have  wasted  in  confinement 

for  a  year  ? 
Dost  thou  lead  me  forth  to  torture  ? — Back  and  pincers 

I  defy— 
Is  it   that   thy   base  grotesques   may   behold  a  hero 

die?" 

"  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  Christian  caitiff!  and  attend  to 

what  I  say  : 
Thou  art  called  the  starkest  rider  of  the  Spanish  curs' 

array — 
If  thy  courage  be  undaimted,  as  they  say  it  was  of 

yore. 
Thou  may'st  yet  achieve  thy  freedom, — ^yet  regain  thy 

native  shore. 


18  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"Courses  three  within  this  circus  'gainst  my  warriors 

shalt  thou  run. 
Ere  yon  weltering  pasteboard  ocean  shall  receive  yon 

muslin  sun ; 
Victor — thou  shalt  have  thy  freedom ;  but  if  stretched 

upon  the  plain, 
To  thy  dark  and  dreary  dungeon  they  shall  bear  thee 

back  again." 

"  Give  me  but  the  armor,  monarch,  I  have  worn  in  many 

a  field, 
Give  me  but  a  trusty  helmet,  give  me  but  my  dinted 

shield ; 
And  my  old   steed,  Bavieca,  swiftest  courser  in   the 

ring, 

And  I  rather  should  imagine  that  I  '11  do  the  business, 

t" 


Then  they  carried  down  the  armor  from  the  garret  where 

it  lay, 
O !  but  it  was  red  and  rusty,  and  the  plumes  were  shorn 

away ; 
And  they  led  out  Bavieca,  from  a  foul  and  filthy  van, 
For  the  conqueror  had  sold  him  to  a  Moorish  dogs-meat 

TTIRn. 

When  the  steed  beheld  his  master,  then  he  whinned  loud 

and  free, 
And,  in  token  of  subjection,  knelt  upon  each  broken 

knee; 


THE    BOOK   OF    BALLADS.  19 

And  a  tear  of  walnut  largeness  to  the  warrior's  eyelids 

rose, 
As  he  fondly  picked  a  beanstraw  from   his  coughing 

courser's  nose. 

"  Many  a  time,  O  Bavieca,  hast  thou  borne  me  through 

the  fray ! 
Bear  me  but  again  as  deftly  through  the  listed  ring  this 

day; 
Or  if  thou  art  worn  and  feeble,  as  may  well  have  come 

to  pass, 
Time  it  is,  my  trusty  charger,  both  of  us  were  sent  to 


grass 


I" 


Then  he  seized  his  lance,  and  vaulting  in  the  saddle,  sate 
upright, 

Marble  seemed  the  noble  courser,  iron  seemed  the 
mailed  knight ; 

And  a  cry  of  admiration  burst  from  every  Moorish 
lady— 

"  Five  to  four  on  Don  Fernando  !"  cried  the  sable- 
bearded  Cadi. 

Warriors  three  from  Alcantara  burst  into  the  listed  space, 
Warriors  three,  all  bred  in  battle,  of  the  proud  Alham 

bra  race : 
Trumpets  sounded,  coursers  bounded,  and  the  foremost 

straight  went  down. 
Tumbling,  like  a  sack  of  turnips,  just  before  the  jeering 

Clown. 


20  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

In  the  second  chieftain  galloped,  and  he  bowed  him  to 
the  King, 

And  his  saddle-girths  were  tightened  by  the  Master  of 
the  Ring ; 

Through  three  blazoned  hoops  he  bounded  ere  the  des- 
perate fight  began — 

Don  Fernando !  bear  thee  bravely ! — 'tis  the  Moor  Ab- 
dorrhoman ! 

Like  a  double  streak  of  lightning,  clashing  in  the  sul- 
phurous sky. 

Met  the  pair  of  hostile  heroes,  and  they  made  the  saw- 
dust fly ; 

And  the  Moslem  spear  so  stiffly  smote  on  Don  Feman- 
do's  mail, 

That  he  reeled,  as  if  in  liquor,  back  to  Bavieca's  tail. 

But  he  caught  the  mace  beside  him,  and  he  griped  it 
hard  and  fast. 

And  he  swung  it  starkly  upwards  as  the  foeman  bound- 
ed past ; 

And  the  deadly  stroke  descended  through  the  skull  and 
through  the  brain, 

As  ye  may  have  seen  a  poker  cleave  a  cocoa-nut  in 
twain. 

Sore  astonished  was  the  monarch,  and  the  Moorish  war- 
riors all. 

Save  the  third  bold  chief,  who  tarried  and  beheld  his 
brethren  fall ; 


THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  2*^ 

And  the  Clown  in  haste  arising  from  the  footstool  where 

he  set, 
Notified  the  first  appearance  of  the  famous  Acrobat ! 

Never  on  a  single  charger  rides  that  stout  and  stalwarc 

Moor, 
Five  beneath  his  stride  so  stately  bear  him  o'er  the 

trembling  floor ; 
Five  Arabians,  black  as  midnight — on  their  necks  the 

rein  he  throws, 
And  the  outer  and  the  inner  feel  the  pressure  of  his 

toes. 


Never  wore  that  chieftain  armor ;  in  a  knot  himself  he 

ties, 
With  his  grizzly  head  appearing  in  the  centre  of  his 

thighs. 
Till  the  petrified  spectator  asks  in  paralyzed  alarm — 
Where  may  be  the  warrior's  body, — which  is  leg,  and 

which  is  arm  1 


"  Sound  the  charge !"  the  coursers  started ;  with  a  yell 
and  furious  vault, 

High  in  air  the  Moorish  champion  cut  a  wondrous 
somersault ; 

O'er  the  head  of  Don  Fernando  like  a  tennis-ball  he 
sprung, 

Caught  him  tightly  by  the  girdle,  and  behind  the  crup- 
per hung.    . 


22  THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

Then  his  dagger  Don  Fernando  plucked  from  out  its 

jewelled  sheath, 
A.nd  he  struck  the  Moor  so  fiercely,  as  he  grappled  him 

beneath, 
That  the  good  Damascus  weapon  sunk  within  the  fi)ld8 

of  fat, 
And,  as  dead  as  Julius  Csesar,  dropped  the  Gordian 

Acrobat. 

Meanwhile,  fast  the  sun  was  sinking, — it  had  sunk  be- 
neath the  sea, 

Ere  Fernando  Gomersalez  smote  the  latter  of  the  three ; 

And  Al-Widdicomb,  the  monarch,  pointed  with  a  bitter 
smile, 

To  the  deeply-darkening  canvass — ^blacker  grew  it  all 
the  while. 

*'  Thou  hast  slain  my  warriors,  Spaniard !  but  thou  hast 

not  kept  thy  time ; 
Only  two  had  sunk  before  thee  ere  I  heard  the  curfew 

chime ; 
Back  thou  goest  to  thy  dungeon,  and  thou  may'st  be 

wondrous  glad. 
That  thy  head  is  on  thy  shoulders  for  thy  worK  to-day, 

my  lad ! 

"Therefore,  all  thy  boasted  valor,  Christian  dog,  of  no 

avail  is !" 
Dark   as  midnight  grew  the  brow  of  Don  Ffrnando 

Gomersalez ; — 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  2||; 

Btiffly  sate  he  in  his  saddle,  grimly  looked  around  the 

ring, 
Laid  his  lance  within  the  rest,  and  shook  his  gauntlet  at 

the  King. 

"  0,  thou  foul  and  faithless  traitor !   wouldst  thou  play 

me  false  again  1 
Welcome  death  and  welcome  torture,  rather  than  the 

captive's  chain  ! 
But  I  give  thee  warning,  caitiff !     Look  thou  sharply  to 

thine  eye — 
Unavenged,  at  least  in  harness,  Gomersalez  shall  not 

die !» 

Thus  he  spoke,  and  Bavieca  like  an  arrow  forward  flew, 
Right  and  left  the  Moorish  squadron  wheeled  to  let  the 

hero  through ; 
Brightly  gleamed  the  light  of  vengeance — fiercely  sped 

the  fatal  thrust — 
From  his  throne  the  Moorish  monarch  tumbled  lifeless 

in  the  dust. 

Speed  thee,  speed  thee,  Bavieca !   speed  thee  faster  than 

the  wind  ! 
Life  and  freedom  are  before  thee,  deadly  foes  give  chase 

behind ! 
Speed  thee  up  the  sloping  spring-board  ;   o'er  the  bridge 

that  spans  the  seas  ; 
Yonder  gauzy  moon  will  light  thee  through  the  grove  of 

canvas  trees. 


fttt  THE    BOOK   OF    BALLADS. 

Close  before  thee,  Pampeluna  spreads  her  painted  paste- 
board gate ! 

Speed  thee  onward,  gallant  courser,  speed  thee  with  thy 
knightly  freight — 

Victory  !  the  town  receives  them  ! — Gentle  ladies,  this 
the  tale  is, 

Which  I  learned  in  Astley's  Circus,  of  Fernando  Gomer* 
salez! 


THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 


€\ti  (^nurtsjiip  of  nnr  £ik 

What  a  pang  of  sweet  emotion 

Th»-nied  the  Master  of  the  Ring, 
When  he  first  beheld  the  lady, 

Through  the  stabled  portal  spring  ! 
Midway  in  his  wild  grimacing 

Stopped  the  piebald- visaged  Clown  • 
And  the  thunders  of  the  audience 

Nearly  brought  the  gallery  down 

Donna  Inez  "Woolfordinez ! 

Saw  ye  ever  such  a  maid, 
With  the  feathers  swaling  o'er  her, 

And  her  spangled  rich  brocade"? 
In  her  fairy  hand  a  horsewhip. 

On  her  foot  a  buskin  small, 
So  she  stepped,  the  stately  damsel, 

Through  the  scarlet  grooms  and  all. 

And  she  beckoned  for  her  courser. 

And  they  brought  a  milk-white  mare ; 

Proud.  I  ween,  was  that  Arabian 
Such  a  gentle  freight  to  bear  : 


THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

And  the  Master  moved  towards  her, 
With  a  proud  and  stately  walk  ; 

And,  in  reverential  homage, 

Rubbed  her  soles  with  virgin  chalk. 

Round  she  flew,  as  Flora  flying 

Spans  the  circle  of  the  year ; 
And  the  youth  of  London  sighing, 

Half  forgot  the  ginger  beer — 
Quite  forgot  the  maids  beside  them ; 

As  they  surely  well  might  do, 
When  she  raised  two  Roman  candles, 

Shooting  fireballs  red  and  blue ! 

Swifter  than  the  Tartar's  arrow, 

Lighter  than  the  lark  in  flight, 
On  the  left  foot  now  she  bounded, 

Now  she  stood  upon  the  right. 
Like  a  beautiful  Bacchante, 

Here  she  soars,  and  there  she  kneels, 
While  amid  her  floating  tresses, 

Flash  two  whirling  Catherine  wheels  I 

Hark  !  the  blare  of  yonder  trumpet ! 

See  the  gates  are  open  wide ! 
Room,  there,  room  for  Gomersalez, — 

Gomersalez  in  his  pride ! 
Rose  the  shouts  of  exultation, 

Rose  the  cat's  triumphant  call. 
As  he  bounded,  man  and  courser, 

Over  Master,  Clown,  and  all ! 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  flOT 

Donua  Inez  Woolfordinez ! 

Why  those  blushes  on  thy  cheek  1 
Doth  thy  trembling  bosom  tell  thee, 

He  hath  come  thy  love  to  seek  1 
Fleet  thy  Arab — but  behind  thee 

He  is  rushing  like  a  gale  ; 
One  foot  on  his  coal  black's  shoulders, 

And  the  other  on  his  tail ! 

Onward,  onward,  panting  maiden ! 

He  is  faint  and  fails — for  now. 
By  the  feet  he  hangs  suspended 

From  his  glistening  saddle-bow. 
Down  are  gone  both  cap  and  feather, 

Lance  and  gonfalon  are  down ! 
Trunks,  and  cloak,  and  vest  of  velvet, 

He  has  flung  them  to  the  Clown. 

Faint  and  failing  !     Up  he  vaulteth, 

Fresh  as  when  he  first  began ; 
All  in  coat  of  bright  vermilion, 

'Quipped  as  Shaw,  the  Life-guardsmaru 
Right  and  left  his  whizzing  broadsword. 

Like  a  sturdy  flail,  he  throws ; 
Cutting  out  a  path  unto  thee 

Through  imaginary  foes. 

Woolfordinez !  speed  thee  onward  ! 

He  is  hard  upon  thy  track, — 
Paralyzed  is  Widdicombez, 

Nor  his  whip  can  longer  crack  ; 


THS   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

He  has  flung  away  his  broadsword, 
"Ks  to  clasp  thee  to  his  breast. 

Onward ! — see  he  bares  his  bosom, 
Tears  away  his  scarlet  vest ; 

Leaps  from  out  his  nether  garments. 

And  his  leathern  stock  unties — 
As  the  flower  of  London's  dustmen, 

Now  in  swift  pursuit  he  flies. 
Nimbly  now  he  cuts  and  shufiles, 

O'er  the  buckle,  heel  and  toe ! 
And  with  hands  deep  in  his  pockets 

Winks  to  all  the  throng  below  ! 

Onward,  onward  rush  the  coursers ; 

Woolfordinez,  peerless  girl. 
O'er  the  garters  lightly  bounding 

From  her  steed  with  airy  whirl ! 
Gomersalez,  wild  with  passion, 

Danger — all  but  her — forgets ; 
Wheresoe'er  she  flies,  pursues  her, 

Casting  clouds  of  somersets ! 

Onward,  onward  rush  the  coursers ; 

Bright  is  Gomersalez'  eye  ; 
Saints  protect  thee,  Woolfordinez, 

For  his  triumph,  sure,  is  nigh  ! 
Now  his  courser's  flanks  he  lashes. 

O'er  his  shoulder  flings  the  rein, 
And  his  feet  aloft  he  tosses, 

Holding  stoutly  by  the  mane ! 


THS    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  189 

Then  his  feet  once  more  regaining, 

Doffs  his  jacket,  doffs  his  smalls  ; 
And  in  gracefiil  folds  around  him 

A  bespangled  tunic  falls. 
Pinions  from  his  heels  are  bursting. 

His  bright  locks  have  pinions  o'er  them ; 
And  the  public  sees  with  rapture 

Maia's  nimble  son  before  them. 

Speed  thee,  speed  thee,  WocJlfordinez  ! 

For  a  panting  god  pursues ; 
And  the  chalk  is  very  nearly 

Rubbed  from  thy  white  satin  shoes ; 
Every  bosom  throbs  with  terror, 

You  might  hear  a  pin  to  drop ; 
All  was  hushed,  save  where  a  starting 

Cork  gave  out  a  casual  pop. 

One  smart  lash  across  his  courser, 

One  tremendous  bound  and  stride, 
And  our  noble  Cid  was  standing 

By  his  Woolfordinez'  side  ! 
With  a  god's  embrace  he  clasj»ed  her, 

Raised  her  in  his  manly  arms ; 
And  the  stables'  closing  barriers 

Hid  his  valor,  and  her  charms ! 


30  TnE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


AMEEICAN  BALLADS 


€jiB  /igjit  initji  tjiB  liia|i|iing  €Mt 

OR,  THE  AMERICAN  ST.  GEORGE. 

FTTTK   FIRST. 

Have  you  heard  of  Philip  Slingsby, 
Slingsby  of  the  manly  chest ; 

How  he  slew  the  Snapping  Turtle 
In  the  regions  of  the  West? 

Every  day  the  huge  Cawana 
Lifted  up  its  monstrous  jaws ; 

And  it  swallowed  Langton  Bennett, 
And  digested  Rufus  Dawes. 

Riled,  I  ween,  was  Philip  Slingsby, 
Their  untimely  deaths  to  hear; 

Tor  one  author  owed  him  money, 
And  the  other  loved  him  dear. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  ^1 

"  Listen,  now,  sagacious  Tyler, 

Whom  the  loafers  all  obey ; 
What  reward  will  Congress  give  me. 

If  I  take  this  pest  away  ?" 

Then  sagacious  Tyler  answered, 

"  You're  the  ring-tailed  squealer !     Less 

Than  a  hundred  heavy  dollars 
Won't  be  offered  you,  I  guess ! 

"  And  a  lot  of  wooden  nutmegs 

In  the  bargain,  too,  we'll  throw — 
Only  you  just  fix  the  criter — 

Won't  you  liquor  ere  you  go  ?" 

Straightway  leaped  the  valiant  Slingsby 

Into  armor  of  Seville, 
With  a  strong  Arkansas  toothpick 

Sci'ewed  in  every  joint  of  steel. 

"  Come  thou  with  me,  Cullen  Bryant, 

Come  with  me  as  squire,  I  pray ; 
Be  the  Homer  of  the  battle 

That  I  go  to  wage  to-day." 

So  they  went  along  careering 

With  a  loud  and  martial  tramp. 
Till  they  neared  the  Snapping  Turtle 

In  the  dreary  Swindle  Swamp. 

But  when  Slingsby  saw  the  water, 

Somewhat  pale,  I  ween,  was  he. 
**  If  I  come  not  back,  dear  Bryant, 

Tell  the  tale  to  Melanie ! 


83  THB   BOOK    or   BALLAD& 

«Tell  her  that  I  died  devoted, 

Victim  to  a  noble  task  ! 
Ha'n't  you  got  a  drop  of  brand  j 

In  the  bottom  of  your  flask  ?** 

As  he  spoke,  an  alligator 

Swam  across  the  sullen  creek  ; 

And  the  two  Columbians  started 

When  they  heard  the  monster  shriek : 

For  a  snout  of  huge  dimensions 
Rose  above  the  waters  high, 

And  took  down  the  alligator. 
As  a  trout  takes  down  a  fly. 

«♦  Tamal  death  t  the  Snapping  Turtle !" 
Thus  the  squire  in  terror  cried ; 

But  the  noble  Slingsby  straightway 
Drew  the  toothpick  from  his  side. 

"  Fare  thee  well !"  he  cried,  and  dashing 
Through  the  waters,  strongly  swam  : 

Meanwhile  CuUen  Bryant,  watching. 
Breathed  a  prayer  and  sucked  a  dram. 

Sudden  from  the  slimy  bottom 
Was  the  snout  again  upreared. 

With  a  snap  as  loud  as  thunder, — 
And  the  Slingsby  disappeared. 

Like  a  mighty  steam-ship  foundering, 
Down  the  mc«istrous  vision  sank  ; 

And  the  ripple,  slowly  rolling. 

Plashed  and  played  upon  the  bank. 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

Still  and  stiller  grew  the  water, 

Hushed  the  canes  within  the  brake ; 

There  was  but  a  kind  of  coughing 
At  the  bottom  of  the  lake. 

Bryant  wept  as  loud  and  deeply 

As  a  father  for  a  son — 
"  He's  a  finished  'coon,  is  Slingsby, 

And  the  brandy's  nearly  done !" 


FYTTE    SECOND. 

In  a  trance  of  sickening  anguish, 
Cold,  and  stiff,  and  sore  and  damp, 

For  two  days  did  Bryant  linger 
By  the  dreary  Swindle  Swamp; 

Always  peering  at  the  water, 
Always  waiting  for  the  hour. 

When  those  monstrous  jaws  should  open 
As  he  saw  them  ope  before. 

Still  in  vain ; — the  alligators 

Scrambled  through  the  marshy  brake. 
And  the  vampire  leeches  gaily 

Sucked  the  garfish  in  the  lake. 

But  the  Snapping  Turtle  never 

Rose  for  food  or  rose  for  rest, 

Since  he  lodged  the  steel  deposit 

In  the  bottom  of  his  chest. 
2* 


'94  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Only  always  from  the  bottom 

Violent  sounds  of  coughing  rolled, 

Just  as  if  the  huge  Cawana 
Had  a  most  confounded  cold. 

On  the  bank  lay  Cullen  Bryant, 
As  the  second  moon  arose ; 

Gouging  on  the  sloping  green  sward 
Some  imaginary  foes. 

"When  the  swamp  began  to  tremble 
And  the  canes  to  rustle  fast, 

As  if  some  stupendous  body 

Through  their  roots  was  crushing  past. 

And  the  water  boiled  and  bubbled, 
And  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes. 

Several  alligators  bounded, 

Smart  as  squirrels  up  the  trees. 

Then  a  hideous  head  was  lifted, 
With  such  huge  distended  jaws, 

That  they  might  have  held  Goliath 
Quite  as  well  as  Rufus  Dawes. 

Paws  of  elephantine  thickness 
Dragged  its  body  from  the  bay, 

And  it  glared  at  Cullen  Bryant 
In  a  most  unpleasant  way. 

Then  it  writhed  as  if  in  torture. 
And  it  staggered  to  and  fro ; 

And  its  very  shell  was  shaken, 
In  the  anguish  of  its  throe : 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  85 

And  its  cough  grew  loud  and  louder, 

And  its  sob  more  husky  thick ; 
For,  indeed,  it  was  apparent 

That  the  beast  was  very  sick. 

Till  at  last  a  violent  vomit 

Shook  its  carcass  through  and  through, 
And,  as  if  from  out  a  cannon, 

All  in  armor  Slingsby  flew. 

Bent  and  bloody  was  the  bowie. 

Which  he  held  within  his  grasp  ; 
And  he  seemed  so  much  exhausted 

That  he  scarce  had  strength  to  gasp — 

"  Gouge  him,  Bryant !  darn  ye,  gouge  him ! 

Gouge  him  while  he's  on  the  shore !" 
And  his  thumbs  were  straightway  buried 

Where  no  thumbs  had  pierced  before. 

Right  from  out  their  bony  sockets, 
Did  he  scoop  the  monstrous  balls; 

And,  with  one  convulsive  shudder. 
Dead  the  Snapping  Turtle  falls ! 


•'  Post  the  tin,  sagacious  Tyler !" 
But  the  old  experienced  file. 

Leering  first  at  Clay  and  Webster, 
Answered,  with  a  quiet  smile— 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

Since  you  dragged  the  'tarnal  crittur 
From  the  bottom  of  the  ponds, 

Here's  the  hundred  dollars  due  you. 
All  in  Fennsylvanian  Bonds  /'* 


"  The  only  Good  Aiuerican  Securities.' 


THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  37 


€^t  tu\\  nf  j^r.  Cnit 


[The  story  of  Mr.  Colt,  of  which  our  Lay  contains  merely  the  sequel, 
is  this :  A  New  York  printer,  of  the  name  of  Adams,  had  the  effron- 
tery to  call  upon  him  one  day  for  the  payment  of  an  account,  which 
the  independent  Colt  settled  hy  cutting  his  creditor's  head  to  frag- 
ments with  an  axe.  He  then  packed  his  body  in  a  box,  sprinkling  it 
with  salt,  and  despatched  it  to  a  packet,  bound  for  New  Orleans. 
Suspicions  having  been  excited,  he  was  seized,  and  tried  before  Judge 
Kent.  The  trial  is,  perhaps,  the  most  disgraceful  upon  the  records 
of  any  country.  The  ruffian's  mistress  was  produced  in  court,  and 
examined  in  disgusting  detail,  as  to  her  connexion  with  Colt,  and  his 
movements  during  the  days  and  nights  succeeding  the  murder.  The 
head  of  the  murdered  man  was  bandied  to  and  fro  in  the  court,  hand- 
ed up  to  the  jury,  and  commented  on  by  witnesses  and  counsel ;  and 
to  crown  the  horrors  of  the  whole  proceeding,  the  wretch's  own 
counsel,  a  Mr.  Emmet,  commencing  the  defence  with  a  cool  admis- 
sion that  his  client  took  the  life  of  Adams,  and  following  it  up  by  a 
detail  of  the  whole  circumstances  of  this  most  brutal  murder  in  the 
first  person,  as  though  he  himself  had  been  the  murderer,  ended  by 
telling  the  ju.ry,  that  his  client  was  '^entitled  to  the  sympathy  of  a  jury 
of  his  country,"  as  "  a  young  man  just  entering  into  life,  whose  pros- 
pects, prohably  have  been  permanently  Masted.''''  Colt  was  found  guilty  ; 
but  a  variety  of  exceptions  were  taken  to  the  charge  by  the  judge, 
and  after  a  long  series  of  appeals,  which  occupied  more  than  a  year 
from  the  date  of  the  conviction,  the  sentence  of  death  was  ratified  by 
Governor  Seward.    The  rest  of  Colt's  story  is  told  in  our  ballad.] 

STREAK   THE    FIRST. 
*  *  *  * 

And  now  the  sacred  rite  was  done,  and  the  marriage 

knot  was  tied, 
And  Colt  withdrew  his  hlushing  wife  a  little  way  aside ; 


89  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  Let 's  go,"  he  said,  "  into  my  cell,  let 's  go  alone,  my 

dear; 
I  fain  would  shelter  that  sweet  face  from  the  sheriff's 

odious  leer, 
rhe  gaoler  and  the  hangman,  they  are  waiting  both  for 

me, — 
[  cannot  bear  to  see  them  wink  so  knowingly  at  thee ! 
Oh,  how  I  loved  thee,  dearest !     They  say  that  I  am 

wild, 
That  a  mother  dares  not  trust  me  with  the  weasand  of 

her  child. 
They  say  my  bowie  knife  is  keen  to  sliver  into  halves 
The  carcass  of  my  enemy,  as  butchers  slay  their  calves. 
They  say  that  I  am  stern  of  mood,  because,  like  salted 

beef, 
I  packed  my  quartered  foreman  up,  and  marked  him 

'  prime  tariff ;' 
Because  I  thought  to  palm  him  on  the  simple-souled  John 

Bull, 
And  clear  a  small  per  centage  on  the  sale  at  Liverpool ; 
It  may  be  so,  I  do  not  know — these  things,  perhaps,  may 

be ; 
But  surely  I  have  always  been  a  gentleman  to  thee! 
Then  come,  my  love,  into  my  cell,  short  bridal  space  is 

ours, — 
Nay,  sheriff,  never  look  thy  watch — I  guess  there's  good 

two  hours. 
We  '11  shut  the  prison  doors  and  keep  the  gaping  world 

at  bay, 
For  love  is  long  as  'tamity,  though  I  must  die  to-day  !" 


THE  BOOK  OF  BALLADS.  .  39 

STREAK  THE  SECOND. 

The  clock  is  ticking  onward, 

It  nears  the  hour  of  doom, 
And  no  one  yet  hath  entered 

Into  that  ghastly  room. 
The  gaoler  and  the  sheriff 

They  are  walking  to  and  fro ; 
And  the  hangman  sits  upon  the  steps, 

And  smokes  his  pipe  below. 
In  grisly  expectation 

The  prison  all  is  bound, 
And  save  expectoration. 

You  cannot  hear  a  sound. 
The  turnkey  stands  and  ponders, 

His  hand  upon  the  bolt, — 
"  In  twenty  minutes  more,  I  guess, 

'T  will  all  be  up  with  Colt !" 
But  see,  the  door  is  opened  ! 

Forth  comes  the  weeping  bride  ; 
The  courteous  sheriff  lifts  his  hat. 

And  saunters  to  her  side, — 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  C, 

But  is  your  husband  ready  ?" 
"  I  guess  you'd  better  ask  himself,'* 
Replied  the  woful  lady. 

The  clock  is  ticking  onward. 

The  minutes  almost  run, 
The  hangman's  pipe  is  nearly  out, 

'T  is  on  the  stroke  of  one. 


iO  ,THS   BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

At  every  grated  window 

Unshaven  faces  glare ; 
There's  Puke,  the  judge  of  Tennessee, 

And  Lynch,  of  Delaware ; 
And  Batter,  with  the  long  black  beard, 

Whom  Hartford's  maids  know  well ; 
And  Winkinson,  from  Fish  Kill  Reach, 

The  pride  of  New  Rochelle ; 
Elkanah  Nutts,  from  Tarry  Town, 

The  gallant  gouging  boy  ; 
And  coon-faced  Bushwhack,  from  the  hills 

That  frown  o'er  modern  Troy ; 
Young  Wheezer,  whom  our  Willis  loves. 

Because,  't  is  said,  that  he, 
One  morning  from  a  bookstall  filched 

Thetaleof  "Melanie;" 
And  Skunk,  who  fought  his  country's  fight 

Beneath  the  stripes  and  stars, — 
All  thronging  at  the  windows  stood. 

And  gazed  between  the  bars. 

The  little  boys  that  stood  behind 

(Young  thievish  imps  were  they  !) 
Displayed  considerable  nous 

On  that  eventful  day  ; 
For  bits  of  broken  looking-glass 

They  held  aslant  on  high. 
And  there  a  mirrored  gallows-tree 

Met  their  delighted  eye.* 

•A  Fact 


THK   BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  41 

The  clock  is  ticking  onward  ; 

Hark !  Hark !  it  striketh  one ! 
Each  felon  draws  a  whistling  breath, 

"  Time  's  up  with  Colt ;  he  's  done !" 

The  sheriff  looks  his  watch  again, 

Then  puts  it  in  his  fob, 
And  turns  him  to  the  hangman, — 

"  Get  ready  for  the  job." 
The  gaoler  knocketh  loudly, 

The  turnkey  draws  the  bolt. 
And  pleasantly  the  sheriff  says, 

"  We  're  waiting,  Mister  Colt !" 

No  answer  1     No !  no  answer  ! 

All  's  still  as  death  within ; 
The  sheriff  eyes  the  gaoler. 

The  gaoler  strokes  his  chin. 
"  I  should  n't  wonder,  Nahum,  if 

It  were  as  you  suppose." 
The  hangman  looked  unhappy,  and 

The  turnkey  blew  his  nose. 

They  entered.     On  his  pallet 

The  noble  convict  lay, — 
The  bridegroom  on  his  marriage  bed. 

But  not  in  trim  array. 
His  red  right  hand  a  razor  held. 

Fresh  sharpened  from  the  hone. 
And  his  ivory  neck  was  severed, 

And  gashed  into  the  bone. 


411  THB   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 


And  when  the  lamp  is  lighted 

In  the  long  November  days, 
And  lads  and  lasses  mingle 

At  the  shucking  of  the  maize  ; 
When  pies  of  smoking  pumpkin 

Upon  the  table  stand, 
And  bowls  of  black  molasses 

Go  round  from  hand  to  hand ; 
When  slap-jacks,  maple-sugared, 

Are  hissing  in  the  pan. 
And  cider,  with  a  dash  of  gin, 

Foams  in  the  social  can ; 
When  the  good  man  wets  his  whistle, 

And  the  good  wife  scolds  the  child ; 
And  the  girls  exclaim  convulsively, 

"  Have  done,  or  I'll  be  riled  !" 
When  the  loafer  sitting  next  them 

Attempts  a  sly  caress, 
And  whispers,  "  Oh !  you  'possum. 

You  've  fixed  my  heart,  I  guess !" 
With  laughter  and  with  weeping. 

Then  shall  they  tell  the  tale. 
How  Colt  his  foreman  quartered. 

And  died  within  the  gaol. 


THB   BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  49 


€^t  M\^  (Df  Ml}  Snllnr. 

[Before  the  following  poem,  which  originally  appeared  in  "  Fraser'a 
Magazine,"  could  have  reached  America,  intelligence  was  received  in 
this  country  of  an  affray  in  Congress,  very  nearly  the  counterpart  of 
that  which  the  Author  has  here  imagined  in  jest.  It  was  very  clear, 
to  any  one  who  observed  the  state  of  public  manners  in  America, 
that  such  occurrences  mttst  happen  sooner  or  later.  The  Americans 
apparently  felt  the  force  of  the  satire,  as  the  poem  was  widely  re- 
printed throughout  the  States.  It  subsequently  returned  to  this 
country,  embodied  in  an  American  work  on  American  manners, 
where  it  characteristically  appeared  as  the  writer's  own  production ; 
and  it  afterwards  went  the  round  of  British  newspapers,  as  an  amu- 
sing satire  by  an  American,  of  his  countrymen's  foibles  1] 

The  Congress  met,  the  day  was  wet,  Van  Buren  took 

the  chair, 
On  either  side,  the  statesman  pride  of  fair  Kentuck  was 

there. 
With  moody  frown,  there  sat  Calhoun,  and  slowly  in 

his  cheek 
His  quid  he  thrust,  and  slaked  the  dust,  as  Webster 

rose  to  speak. 

Upon  that  day,  near  gifted  Clay,  a  youthful  member  sat, 
And  like  a  free  American  upon  the  floor  he  spat ; 
Then  turning  round  to  Clay,  he  said,  and  wiped  his 

manly  chin, 
"  What  kind  of  Locofoco's  that,  as  wears  the  painter's 

skin?" 


44  THE   BOOK   OF    BALLADS. 

"  Young  man,"  quoth  Clay,  "  avoid  the  way  of  Slick 

of  Tennessee, 
Of  gougers  fierce,  the  eyes  that  pierce,   the  fiercest 

gouger  he. 
He  chews  and  spits  as  there  he  sits,  and  whittles  at  the 

chairs, 
And  in  his  hand,  for  deadly  strife,  a  bowie-knife  ho 

bears. 

"  Avoid  that  knife !     In  frequent  strife  its  blade,  so  long 

and  thin, 
Has  found  itself  a  resting-place  his  rival's  ribs  within." 
But  coward  fear  came  never  near  young  Jabez  Dollar's 

heart, 
"Were    he    an    alligator,   I    would    rUe  him    pretty 

smart !" 

Then  up  he  rose,  and  cleared  his  nose,  and  looked  toward 

the  chair, 
He  saw  the  stately  stripes  and  stars — our  country's  flag 

was  there! 
His  heart  beat  high,  with  savage  cry  upon  the  floor  he 

sprang, 
Then  raised  his  wrist,  and  shook  his  fist,  and  spoke  his 

first  harangue, 

"Who  sold  the  nutmegs  made  of  wood — the  clocks  that 
wouldn't  figure  ? 

Who  grinned  the  bark  off*  gum-trees  dark, — the  ever- 
lasting nigger  ? 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  45 

For  twenty  cents,  ye  Congress  gents,  through  'tamity 

I'll  kick 
That  man,  I  guess,  though  nothing  less  than  coon-feced 

Colonel  Slick!" 


The  colonel  smiled — with  frenzy  wild, — ^his  very  beard 

waxed  blue, — 
His  shirt  it  could  not  hold  him,  so  wrathy  riled   he 

grew; 
He  foams  and  frets,  his  knife  he  whets  upon  his  seat 

below — 
He  sharpens  it  on  either  side,  and  whittles  at  his  toe, — 

"  Oh !  waken,  snakes,  and  walk  your  chalks  ! "  he  cried, 
with  ire  elate ; 

"  Dam  my  old  mother,  but  I  will  in  wild  cats  whip  my 
weight ! 

Oh  !  'tamal  death  I'll  spoil  your  breath,  yoimg  Dollar, 
and  your  chaffing, — 

Look  to  your  ribs,  for  here  is  that  will  tickle  them  with- 
out laughing ! " 

His  knife  he  raised — with  fiiry  crazed,  he  sprang  across 

the  hall ; 
He  cut  a  caper  in  the  air — he  stood  before  them  all : 
He  never  stopped  to  look  X)t  think  if  he  the  deed  should 

do, 
But  spinning  sent  the  President,  and  on  young  DoliaJ 

flew. 


46  THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

They  met — ^they  closed — ^they  sunk — they  rose, — ^iu  vain 

young  Dollar  strove — 
For,  like  a  streak  of  lightning  greased,  the  infuriate 

colonel  drove 
His  bowie  blade  deep  in  his  side,  and  to  the  ground 

they  rolled. 
And,  drenched  in  gore,  wheeled  o'er  and  o'er,  locked  in 

other's  hold. 

With  fury  dumb — with  nail  and  thumb — they  struggled 

and  they  thrust, — 
The  blood  ran  red  from  Dollar's  side,  like  rain,  upon 

the  dust ; 
He  nerved  his  might  for  one  last  spring,  and  as  he  sunk 

and  died. 
Reft  of  an  eye,  his  enemy  fell  groaning  at  his  side. 

t 

Thus  did  he  fall  within  the  hall  of  Congress,  that  brave 

youth ; 
The  bowie-knife  had  quenched  his  life  of  valor  and  of 

truth ; 
And  still  among  the  statesmen  throng  at  "Washington 

they  tell 
How  nobly  Dollar  gouged  his  man — how  gallantly  he 

fell! 


THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  <fl 


€jiB  5llaiianic  DebI. 


"  YouKG  chaps,  give  ear, — the  case  is  clear.     You,  Silas 

Fixings,  you 
Pay  Mister  Nehemiah  Bodge,  them  dollars  as  you  're 

due, 
You  are  a  bloody  cheat, — ^you  are.     But  spite  of  all 

your  tricks,  it 
Is  not  in  you.  Judge  Lynch  to  do.     No  !   no  how  you 

can  fix  it !" 

Thus  spake  Judge  Lynch,  as  there  he  sat  in  Alabama's 

forum. 
Around  he  gazed  with  legs  upraised  upon  the  bench  high 

o'er  him  ; 
And,  as  he  gave  this  sentence  stern  to  him  who  stood 

beneath, 
Still,  with  his  gleaming  bowie-knife  he  slowly  picked  his 

teeth. 

It  was  high  noon,  the  month  was  June,  and  sultry  was 

the  air, 
A  cool  gin-sling  stood  by  his  hand,  his  coat  hung  o'er 

his  chair ; 
All  naked  were  his  manly  arms,  and,  shaded  by  his  hat, 
Like  an  old  Senator  of  Rome,  that  simple  Archon  sat. 


49  THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

"  A  bloody  cheat? — Oh,  legs  and  feet !"  in  wrath  young 

Silas  cried ; 
And,  springing  high  into  the  air,  he  jerked  his  quid 

aside. — 
"  No  man  shall  put  my  dander  up,  or  with  my  feelings 

trifle, 
As  long  as  Silas  Fixings  wears  a  bowie-knife  and  rifle." 

"  If  your  shoes  pinch,"  replied  Judge  Lynch,   "  you  '11 

very  soon  have  ease, 
I   '11   give   you   satisfaction,    squire,   in   any  way  you 

please ; 
Where  are  your  weapons  ? — knife  or  gun  ? — at  both  I  'm 

pretty  spry !" 
"Oh!    'tarnal   death,   you  're   spry,  you   are?"   quoth 

Silas;  "so  am  I!" 

Hard  by  the  town  a  forest  stands,  dark  with  the  shades 
of  time, 

And  they  have  sought  that  forest  dark  at  morning's 
early  prime ; 

Lynch,  backed  by  Nehemiah  Dodge,  and  Silas  with  a 
friend. 

And  half  the  town  in  glee  came  down,  to  see  that  con- 
test's end. 

They  led  their  men  two  miles  apart,  they  measured  out 

the  ground ; 
A  belt  of  that  vast  wood  it  was,  they  notched  the  trees 

around ; 


tHE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  48| 

Into  the  tMigled  brake  they  turned  them  off,  and  neither 

knew 
Where  he  should  seek  his  wagered  foe,  how  get  him  into 

view. 

With  stealthy  tread,  and  stooping  head,  from  tree  to 

tree  they  passed. 
They  crept  beneath  the  crackling  furze,  they  held  their 

rifles  fast: 
Hour  passed  on  hour,  the  noon-day  sun  smote  fiercely 

down,  but  yet 
No  sound  to  the  expectant  crowd  proclaimed  that  they 

had  met. 

And  now  the  sun  was  going  down,  when,  hark !   a  rifle's 

crack! 
Hush — hush !  another  strikes  the  air,  and  all  their  breath 

drew  back, — 
Then  crashing  on  through  bush  and  briar,  the  crowd  from 

either  side 
Bushed  in  to  see  whose  rifle  sure  with  blood  the  moss 

had  dyed. 

Weary  with  watching  up  and  down,  brave  Lynch  con- 
ceived a  plan, 

An  artfiil  dodge  whereby  to  take  at  imawares  his 
man; 

He  hung  his  hat  upon  a  bush,  and  hid  himself 
hard  by, 

Young  Silas  thought  he  had  him  fest,  and  at  the  hat 
let  fly. 


80  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

It  fell ;  up  sprung  young  Silas, — he  hurled  his  gun  away ; 
Lynch  fixed  him  with  his  rifle  from  the  ambush  where 

he  lay. 
The  bullet  pierced  his  manly  breast — ^yet,  valiant  to  the 

last, 
He  drew  his  fatal  bowie-knife,  and  up  his  foxtail*  cast. 

With  tottering  steps  and  glazing  eye  he  cleared  the  space 

between. 
And   stabbed  the   air   as,   in   Macbeth,  still  stabs  the 

younger  Kean ; 
Brave  Lynch  received  him  with  a  bang  that  stretched 

him  on  the  ground. 
Then  sat  himself  serenely  down  till  all  the  crowd  drew 

round. 

They  hailed  him  with  triumphant  cheers — in  him  each 

loafer  saw 
The  bearing  bold  that  could  uphold  the  majesty  of  law ; 
And,  raising  him  aloft,  they  bore  him  homewards  at  his 

ease, — 
That  noble  judge,  whose  daring  hand  enforced  his  own 

decrees. 

They  buried  Silas  Fixings  in  the  hollow  where  he  fell, 
And  gum-trees  wave  above  his  grave — that  tree  he  loved 

so  well ; 
And  the  'coons  sit  chattering  o'er  him  when  the  nights 

are  long  and  damp. 
But   he   sleeps  well   in  that  lonely  dell,   the   Dreary 

'Possum  Swamp. 

*  The  Yankee  tnb^titnte  for  the  ehapeau  de  soie. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  ft! 


[Bapidly  as  oblivion  dees  its  work  now-a-days,  the  burst  of  amiable 
indigoation  with,  which  enlightened  America  received  the  issue  of 
Boz's  "  Notes,"  can  scarcely  yet  be  forgotten.  Not  content  with  wa- 
ging a  universal  rivalry  in  the  piracy  of  the  work,  Columbia  showered 
upon  its  author  the  riches  of  its  own  choice  vocabulary  of  abuse ; 
while  some  of  her  more  fiery  spirits  threw  out  playful  hints  as  to  the 
propriety  of  gouging  the  "  strannger,"  and  furnishing  him  with  a  per- 
manent suit  of  tar  and  feathers,  in  the  very  improbable  event  of  his 
paying  them  a  second  visit.  The  perusal  of  these  animated  expres- 
sions of  free  opinion  suggested  the  following  lines,  which  those  who 
remember  Boz's  book,  and  the  festivities  with  which  he  was  all  but 
hunted  to  death,  will  at  once  understand.  We  hope  we  have  done 
justice  to  the  bitterness  and  "  immortal  hate"  of  these  thin-skinned 
sons  of  freedom.] 

Sneak  across  the   wide  Atlantic,  worthless   London's 

puling  child, 
Better  that  its  waves  should  bear  thee,  than  the  land 

thou  hast  reviled ; 
Better  in  the  stifling  cabin,  on  the  sofa  should'st  thou 

lie, 
Sickening  as  the  fetid  nigger  bears  the  greens  and  bacon 

by. 
Better,  when  the  midnight  horrors  haunt  the  strained 

and  creaking  ship, 
Thou  should'st  yell  in  vain  for  brandy   with  a  fever. 

sodden  lip ; 


02  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

When  amid  the  deepening  darkness   and  the   lamp's 

expiring  shade, 
From  the  bagman's  berth  above  thee  comes  the  boun- 
tiful cascade. 
Better  than  upon  the  Broadway  thou  should'st  be  at 

noon-day  seen, 
Smirking  like  a  Tracy  Tupman  with  a  Mantalini  mien, 
With  a  rivulet  of  satin  falling  o'er  thy  puny  chest, 
Worse  than  even  N.  P.  Willis  for  an  evening  party 
dressed ! 

We  received  thee  warmly — kindly — though  we  knew 

thou  wert  a  quiz, 
Partly  for  thyself  it  may  be,  chiefly  for  the  sake  of 

Phiz! 
Much  we  bore  and    much  we   suffered,   listening  to 

remorseless  spells 
Of  that  Smike's  unceasing  drivellings,  and  these  ever- 
lasting Nells. 
When  you  talk  of  babes  and  sunshine,  fields,  and  all 

that  sort  of  thing, 
Each  Columbian  inly  chuckled,  as  he  slowly  sucked  his 

sling ; 
And  though  all  our  sleeves  were  bursting,  from   the 

many  hundreds  near. 
Not  one  single  scornful  titter  rose  on  thy  complacent  ear. 

Then  to  show  thee  to  the  ladies,  with  our  usual  want  of 

sense 
We  engaged  the  place  m  Park  Street  at  a  ruinous 

expense ; 


THE    BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  53 

Ev'n  our  own  three-volumed  Cooper  waived  his  old  pre- 
scriptive right, 

And  deluded  Dickens  figured  first  on  that  eventful 
night. 

Clusters  of  uncoated  Yorkers,  vainly  striving  to  be  cool, 

Saw  thee  desperately  plunging  through  the  perils  of  La 

Poule ; 

And  their  muttered  exclamation  drowned  the  tenor  of 
the  tune, — 

''  Don't  he  beat  all  natur  hollow  1     Don't  he  foot  it  like 

a  '  coon  1 " 

Did  we  spare  our  brandy-cocktails,   stint  thee  of  our 

whisky-grogs  ? 
Half  the  juleps  that  we  gave  thee  would  have  floored  a 

NewTTian  Noggs ; 
And  thou  took'st  them  in  so  kindly,  little  was  there  then 

to  blame. 
To  thy  parched  and  panting  palate  sweet  as  mother's 

milk  they  came. 
Did  the  hams  of  old  Virginny  find  no  favor  in  thine 

eyes? 
Came  no  soft  compunction  o'er  thee  at  the  thought  of 

pumpkin  pies  ? 
Could  not  all  our  care  and  coddling  teach  thee  how  to 

draw  it  mild  ? 
But,  no  matter,  we  deserve  it.     Serves  us  right !     We 

spoilt  the  child! 

You,  forsooth,  must  come  crusading,  boring  us   with 

broadest  hints 
Of  your  own  peculiar  losses  by  American  reprints. 


54  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Such  an  impudent  remonstrance  never  in  our  face  was 

flung; 
Lever  stands  it,  so  does  Ainsworth ;  you^  I  guess,  may 

hold  your  tongue. 
Down  our  throats  you'd  cram  your  projects,  thick  and 

hard  as  pickled  salmon, 
That,  I  s'pose,  you  call  free-trading,  I  pronounce  it  utter 

gammon. 
No,  my  lad,  a  cuter  vision  than  your  own  might  soon 

have  seen, 
That  a  true  Columbian  ogle  carries  little  that  is  green. 
Quite  enough  we  pay,  I  reckon,  when  we  stump  a  cent 

or  two 
For  the  voyages  and  travels  of  a  freshman  such  as  you. 

I  have  been  at  Niagara,   I  have  stood   beneath   the 

Falls, 
I  have  marked  the  water  twisting  over  its  rampagious 

walls ; 
But  "  a  holy  calm  sensation,"  one,  in  fact,  of  perfect 

peace. 
Was  as  much  my  first  idea  as  the  thought  of  Christmas 

geese. 
As  for  "  old  familiar  faces,"  looking  through  the  misty 

air, 
Surely  you  were  strongly  liquored  when  you  saw  your 

Chuckster  there. 
One  femiliar  face,  however,  you  will  very  likely  see, 
If  you'll  only  treat  the  natives  to  a  call  in  Tennessee, 
Of  a  certain  individual,  true  Columbian  every  inch. 
In  a  high  judicial  station,  called  by  'mancipators.  Lynch. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  JS6 

Half-an-hour  of  conversation  with  his  worship  in  a  wood 
Would,  1  strongly  notion,  do  you  an  infernal  deal  of 

good. 
Then  you'd  understand  more  clearly  than  you  ever  did 

before, 
Why  an  independent  patriot  freely  spits  upon  the  floor, 
Why  he  gouges  when  he  pleases,  why  he  whittles  at  the 

chairs, 
Why  for  swift  and  deadly  combat  still  the  bowie-knife 

he  bears : — 
Why  he  sneers  at  the  Old  Country  with  republican 

disdain, 
And,  unheedful  of  the  negro's  cry,  still  tighter  draws  his 

chain. 
All  these  things  the  judge  shall  teach  thee  of  the  land 

thou  hast  reviled ; 
Get  thee  o'er  tne  wide  Atlantic,  worthless  London's 

puling  child ! 


6$  TUB   BOOK    OF   BALLADS, 


MISCELLANEOUS  BALLADS. 


Once, — ^'t  was  when  I  lived  at  Jena, — 

At  a  Wirthshaus'  door  I  sat ; 
And  in  pensive  contemplation, 

Eat  the  sausage  thick  and  fat ; 
Eat  the  kraut,  that  never  sourer 

Tasted  to  my  lips  than  here ; 
Smoked  my  pipe  of  strong  canaster. 

Sipped  my  fifteenth  jug  of  beer ; 
Gazed  upon  the  glancing  river. 

Gazed  upon  the  tranquil  pool. 
Whence  the  silver-voiced  Undine, 

When  the  nights  were  calm  and  cool, 
As  the  Baron  Fouqu6  tells  us, 

Rose  from  out  her  shelly  grot, 
Casting  glamor  o'er  the  waters, 

Witching  that  enchanted  spot. 
From  the  shadow  which  the  coppice 

Flings  across  the  rippling  stream, 


THE    BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

Did  I  hear  a  sound  of  music — 

Was  it  thought  or  was  it  dream? 
There,  beside  a  pile  of  linen, 

Stretched  along  the  daised  sward,   - 
Stood  a  young  and  blooming  maiden — 

'T  was  her  thrush-like  song  I  heard, 
Evermore  within  the  eddy 

Did  she  plunge  the  white  chemise ; 
And  her  robes  were  loosely  gathered 

Rather  far  above  her  knees ; 
Then  my  breath  at  once  forsook  me, 

For  too  surely  did  I  deem 
That  I  saw  the  fair  Undine 

Standing  in  the  glancing  stream — 
And  1  felt  the  charm  of  knighthood ; 

And  from  that  remembered  day, 
Every  evening  to  the  Wirthshaus 

Took  I  my  enchanted  way. 
Shortly  to  relate  my  story. 

Many  a  week  of  summer  long. 
Came  I  there,  when  beer-o'ertaken, 

With  my  lute  and  with  my  song ; 
Sang  in  mellow-toned  soprano, 

All  my  love  and  all  my  wo, 
Till  the  river-maiden  answered, 

Lilting  in  the  stream  below  : — 
"  Fair  Undine !  sweet  Undine ! 

Dost  thou  love  as  I  love  thee  ?" 
"  Love  is  free  as  running  water," 

W^as  the  answer  made  to  me. 


THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

Thus,  in  interchange  seraphic, 

Did  I  WOO  my  phantom  fay, 
Till  the  nights  grew  long  and  chilly, 

Short  and  shorter  grew  the  day ; 
Till  at  last — 't  was  dark  and  gloomy, 

Dull  and  starless  was  the  sky, 
And  my  steps  were  all  unsteady. 

For  a  little  flushed  was  I, — 
To  the  well  accustomed  signal 

No  response  the  maiden  gave ; 
But  I  heard  the  waters  washing. 

And  the  moaning  of  the  wave. 

Vanished  was  my  own  Undine, 
All  her  linen,  too,  was  gone ; 

And  I  walked  about,  lamenting. 
On  the  river  bank  alone. 

Idiot  that  I  was,  for  never 

Had  I  asked  the  maiden's  name. 

Was  it  Lieschen — was  it  Gretchen  ? 
Had  she  tin — or  whence  she  came? 

So  I  took  ray  trusty  meerschaum. 

And  I  took  my  lute  likewise ; 
Wandered  forth  in  minstrel  fashion. 

Underneath  the  lowering  skies ; 
Sang  before  each  comely  Wirthshaus, 

Sang  beside  each  purling  stream. 
That  same  ditty  which  I  chanted 

When  Undine  wriS  my  theme, 


THE    BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

Singiiig,  as  I  sang  at  Jena, 

When  the  shifts  were  hung  to  dry, 
"  Fair  Undine !  young  Undine ! 

Dost  thou  love  as  well  as  I  ]" 

But,  alas !  in  field  or  village, 

Or  beside  the  pebbly  shore, 
Did  I  see  those  glancing  ankles, 

And  the  white  robe  nevermore ; 
And  no  answer  came  to  greet  me, 

No  sweet  voice  to  mine  replied  ; 
But  I  heard  the  waters  rippling, 

And  the  moaning  of  the  tide. 


5D 


"The  moaning  of  the  tied.' 


GO  THB    BOOK    OP   BALLADS. 


There  is  a  sound  that's  dear  to  me, 

It  haunts  me  in  my  sleep  ; 
I  wake,  and,  if  I  hear  it  not, 

I  cannot  choose  but  weep. 
Above  the  roaring  of  the  wind, 

Above  the  river's  flow, 
Methinks  I  hear  the  mystic  cry 

Of  «  Clo  !— Old  Qo  !" 

The  exile's  song,  it  thrills  among 

The  dwellings  of  the  free, 
Its  sound  is  strange  to  English  ears, 

But 't  is  not  strange  to  me ; 
For  it  hath  shook  the  tented  field 

In  ages  long  ago, 
And  hosts  have  quailed  betbre  the  cry 

Of  "Qo!— Old  Clo!" 

Oh,  lose  it  not !  forsake  it  net ! 

And  let  no  time  efface 
The  memory  of  that  solemn  sound, 

The  watchword  of  our  race. 


THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

For  not  by  dark  and  eagle  eye 
The  Hebrew  shall  you  know, 

So  well  as  by  the  plaintive  cry 
Of  «  Clo !— Old  Clo  !" 

Even  now,  perchance,  by  Jordan's  banks, 

Or  Sidon's  sunny  walls. 
Where,  dial-like,  to  portion  time, 

The  palm-tree's  shadow  falls. 
The  pilgrims,  wending  on  their  way, 

Will  linger  as  they  go, 
And  listen  to  the  distant  cry 

Of  "  Clo !— Old  Qo !" 


6?  TBS   BOOK    OF    BALLAXtS. 


%mi^  (0rnggralinrg. 

AFTER  THS   MANNER   OF   SCHILLER. 

"  BuRSCH !  if  foaming  beer  content  ye, 

Come  and  drink  your  fill ; 
In  our  cellars  there  is  plenty ; 

Himmel !  how  you  swill ! 
That  the  liquor  hath  allurance, 

Well  I  understand ; 
But 't  is  really  past  endurance, 

When  you  squeeze  my  hand  !" 

And  he  heard  her  as  if  dreaming. 

Heard  her  half  in  awe ; 
And  the  meerschaum's  smoke  came  streaming 

From  his  open  jaw : 
And  his  pulse  beat  somewhat  quicker 

Than  it  did  before, 
And  he  finished  oflF  his  liquor, 

Staggered  through  the  door ; 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Bolted  off  direct  to  Munich, 

And  within  the  year 
Underneath  his  German  tunic 

Stowed  whole  butts  of  beer. 
And  he  drank  like  fifty  fishes, 

Drank  till  all  was  blue ; 
For  he  felt  extremely  vicious — 

Somewhat  thirsty  too. 

But  at  length  this  dire  deboshing 

Drew  towards  an  end ; 
Few  of  all  his  silber-groschen 

Had  he  left  to  spend. 
And  he  knew  it  was  not  prudent 

Longer  to  remain ; 
So,  with  weary  feet,  the  student 

Wended  home  again. 

At  the  tavern's  well  known  portal, 

Knocks  he  as  before, 
■  And  a  waiter,  rather  mortal, 

Hiccups  through  the  door, — 
"  Masters  's  sleeping  in  the  kitchen ; 

You  '11  alarm  the  house ; 
Yesterday  the  Jungfrau  Fritchen 

Married  baker  Kraus !" 

Like  a  fiery  comet  bristling. 
Rose  the  young  man's  hair. 

And,  poor  soul !  he  fell  a-whistling, 
Out  of  sheer  despair. 


THB   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

Down  the  gloomy  street  in  silence, 

Savage-calm  he  goes ; 
But  he  did  no  deed  of  vi'lence — 

Only  blew  his  nose. 

Then  he  hired  an  airy  garret 

Near  her  dwelling-place ; 
Grew  a  beard  of  fiercest  carrot, 

Never  washed  his  face ; 
Sate  all  day  beside  the  casement, 

Sate  a  dreary  man ; 
Found  in  smoking  such  an  easement 

As  the  wretched  can ; 

Stared  for  hours  and  hours  together, 

Stared  yet  more  and  more ; 
Till  in  fine  and  sunny  weather, 

At  the  baker's  door, 
Stood,  in  apron  white  and  mealy. 

That  beloved  dame, 
Counting  out  the  loaves  so  freely, 

Selling  of  the  same. 

Then  like  a  volcano  puffing. 

Smoked  he  out  his  pipe ; 
Sigh'd  and  supp'd  on  ducks  and  stuffing, 

Ham,  and  kraut,  and  tripe ; 
Went  to  bed,  and  in  the  morning, 

Waited  as  before. 
Still  his  eyes  in  anguish  turning 

To  the  baker's  door ; 


TUB    COOK    OP   BALLADS. 

Till,  with  apron  white  and  mealy, 

Came  the  lovely  dame, 
Counting  out  the  loaves  so  freely, 

Selling  of  the  same. 
So,  one  day — the  fact  's  amazing  !- 

On  his  post  he  died  ; 
And  they  found  the  body  gazing 

At  the  baker's  bride. 


69  TQB   BOOK   OF   BALLAIMk 


Migjrt  mii  fflnming. 

NOT    BY    SIR   E.    BULWER   LYTTOW. 

"  Thy  coffee,  Tom,  's  untasted, 

And  thy  egg  is  very  cold ; 
Thy  cheeks  are  wan  and  wasted, 

Not  rosy  as  of  old. 
My  hoy  what  has  come  o'er  ye, 

You  surely  are  not  well ! 
Try  some  of  that  ham  before  ye, 

And  then,  Tom,  ring  the  bell !" 

"  I  cannot  eat,  my  mother, 

My  tongue  is  parched  and  bound, 
And  my  head  somehow  or  other, 

Is  swimming  round  and  round. 
In  my  eyes  there  is  a  fiilness, 

And  my  pulse  is  beating  quick ; 
On  my  brain  is  a  weight  of  dulness; 

Oh,  mother,  I  am  sick !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  67 

"  These  long,  long  nights  of  watching 

Are  killing  you  outright ; 
The  evening  dews  are  catching, 

And  you  're  out  every  night. 
Why  does  that  horrid  grumbler. 

Old  Inkpen,  work  you  so  1" 

Tom  {lene  susurrans) 

"My  head  !  Oh,  that  tenth  tumbler  ! 
'T  was  that  wihch  wrought  my  wo !" 


68  THB    BOOK   OF    BALLADS. 


€^t  Mn  %it 


The  sun  is  in  the  sky,  mother,  the  flowers  are  springing 

fair, 
And  the  melody  of  woodland  birds  is  stirring  in  the 

air; 
The   river,  smiling  to  the  sky,  glides  onward  to  the 

sea, 
And  happiness  is  everywhere,   oh  mother,  but  with 

me! 

They  are  going   to    the   church,   mother, — I   hear  the 

marriage  bell ; 
It  booms  along  the  upland, — oh!  it  haunts  me  like  a 

knell ; 
He  leads  her  on  his  arm,  mother,  he  cheers  her  faltering 

step. 
And  closely   to    his    side  she  clings, — she   does,   the 

demirep ! 

They  are  crossing  by  the  stile,  mother,  where  we  so  oft 

have  stood, 
The  stile  beside  the  shady  thorn,  at  the  comer  of  the 

wood ; 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  69 

And  the  boughs,  that  wout  to  murmur  back  the  words 

that  won  my  ear, 
Wave  their  silver  branches  o'er  him,  as  he  leads  his 

bridal  fere. 

He  w^ll  pass  beside  the  stream,  mother,  where  first  my 

hand  he  pressed, 
By  the  meadow  where,  with  quivering  lip,  his  passion 

he  confessed ; 
And  down  the  hedgerows  where  we  've  strayed  again 

and  yet  again ; 
But  he  will  not  think  of  me,  mother,  his  broken-hearted 

Jane ! 

He  said  that  I  was  proud,  mother,  that  I  looked  for  rank 

and  gold. 
He  said  1  did  not  love  him, — he  said  my  words  were 

cold; 
He   said   I   kept  him  off  and   on,  in   hopes  of  higher 

game, — 
And  it  may  be  that  I  did,  mother ;  but  who  has  n't  done 

the  same  ? 

I  did  not  know  my  heart,  mother, — ^I  know  it  now  too 

late; 
I  thought  that  I  without  a  pang  could  wed  some  nobler 

mate; 
But  no  nobler  suitor   sought  me, — and   he  has  taken 

wing, 
And  my  heart  is  gone,  and  I  am  left  a  lone  and  blighted 

thing. 


W' 


THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 


You  may  lay  me  in  my  bed,  mother, — my  head  is 
throbbing  sore ; 

And,  mother,  prithee,  let  the  sheets  be  duly  aired 
before ; 

And,  if  you  'd  please,  my  mother  dear,  your  poor  des- 
ponding child. 

Draw  me  a  pot  of  beer,  mother,  ana,  mother,  draw  it 
mUd! 


*  Love  gone  to  pot." 


THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  71 


€!iB  €nmd  ml  tjiB  !Hii5trnImtt  tnl^. 

Thy  skin  is  dark  as  jet,  ladye, 

Thy  cheek  is  sharp  and  high, 
And  there's  a  cruel  leer,  love, 

Within  thy  rolling  eye ! 
These  tangled  ebon  tresses 

No  comb  hath  e'er  gone  through ; 
And  thy  forehead  it  is  furrowed  by 

The  elegant  tattoo ! 


I  love  thee, — oh,  I  love  thee, 

Thou  strangely  feeding  maid ! 
Nay,  lift  not  thus  thy  boomerang, 

I  meant  not  to  upbraid  ! 
Come,  let  me  taste  those  yellow  lips 

That  ne'er  were  tasted  yet, 
Save  when  the  shipwrecked  mariner 

Pass'd  through  them  for  a  whet. 

Nay,  squeeze  me  not  so  tightly ! 

For  I  am  gaunt  and  thin. 
There's  little  flesh  to  tempt  thee 

Beneath  a  convict's  skin. 


THB   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

I  came  not  to  be  eaten, 

I  sought  thee,  love,  to  woo  ; 

Besides,  bethink  thee,  dearest, 
Thou  'st  dined  on  cockatoo  ! 

Thy  father  is  a  chieftain ; 

Why  that's  the  very  thing  ! 
Within  my  native  country 

I,  too,  have  been  a  king. 
Behold  this  branded  letter. 

Which  nothing  can  efface ! 
It  is  the  royal  emblem. 

The  token  of  my  race ! 

But  rebels  rose  against  me. 

And  dared  my  power  disown — 
You've  heard,  love,  of  the  judges  ? 

They  drove  me  from  my  throne. 
And  I  have  wandered  hither. 

Across  the  stormy  sea, 
In  search  of  glorious  freedom. 

In  search,  my  sweet,  of  thee ! 

The  bush  is  now  my  empire. 

The  knife  my  sceptre  keen ; 
CJome  with  me  to  the  desert  wild, 

And  be  my  dusky  queen. 
I  cannot  give  thee  jewels, 

I  have  nor  sheep  nor  cow. 
Yet  there  are  kangaroos,  love, 

And  colonists  enow. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS,  78 

We'll  meet  the  unwary  settler. 

As  whistling  home  he  goes, 
And  I'll  take  tribute  from  him, 

His  money  and  his  clothes. 
Then  on  his  bleeding  carcass 

Thou'lt  lay  thy  pretty  paw. 
And  lunch  upon  him  roasted, 

Or,  if  you  like  it,  raw  ! 

Ilien  come  with  me,  my  princess. 

My  own  Australian  dear. 
Within  this  grove  of  gum  trees. 

We'll  hold  our  bridal  cheer ! 
Thy  heart  with  love  is  beating, 

I  feel  it  through  my  side : — 
Hurrah-  then,  for  the  noble  pair, 

Tbe  Convict  and  his  bride ! 


74  TlIK    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 


Come  and  listen,  lords  and  ladies, 

To  a  woful  lay  of  mine ; 
He  whose  tailor's  bill  unpaid  is. 

Let  him  now  his  ft*r  incline ! 
Leh  him  hearken  to  my  story, 

How  the  noblest  of  the  land 
Pined  long  time  in  dreary  duresse 

'Neath  a  sponging  bailiff's  hai>l. 

I.  O.  Uwins!  I.  O.  Uwins! 

Baron's  son  although  thou  be, 
Thou  must  pay  for  thy  misdoings 

In  the  country  of  the  free ! 
None  of  all  thy  sire's  retainers 

To  thy  rescue  now  may  come ; 
And  there  lie  some  score  detainers, 

With  Abednego,  the  bum. 

Little  reck'd  he  of  his  prison 
Whilst  the  sun  was  in  the  sky  : 

Only  when  the  moon  was  risen. 
Did  you  hear  the  captive's  cry; 


THK    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  75 

For,  till  then,  cigars  and  claret 

Lull'd  him  in  oblivion  sweet ; 
And  he  much  preferr'd  a  garret, 

For  his  drinking,  to  the  street. 

But  the  moonlight,  pale  and  broken, 

Pain'd  at  soul  the  Baron's  son ; 
For  he  knew,  by  that  soft  token, 

That  the  larking  had  begun ; — 
That  the  stout  and  valiant  Marquis 

Then  was  leading  forth  his  swells, 
Mangling  some  policeman's  carcass, 

Or  purloining  private  bells. 

So  he  sat,  in  grief  and  sorrow, 

Rather  drunk  than  otherwise. 
Till  the  golden  gush  of  morrow 

Dawned  once  more  upon  his  eyes  : 
Till  the  sponging  bailiflPs  daughter. 

Lightly  tapping  at  the  door. 
Brought  his  draught  of  soda  water, 

Brandy-bottom'd  as  before. 

"  Sweet  Rebecca !  has  your  father, 

Think  you,  made  a  deal  of  brass  1" 
And  she  answered — "  Sir,  I  rather 

Should  imagine  that  he  has." 
Uwins  then,  his  whiskers  scratching. 

Leer'd  upon  the  maiden's  face, 
And,  her  hand  with  ardor  catching, 

Folded  her  in  close  embrace. 


76  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  La,  Sir !  let  alone — ^you  fright  me !" 

Said  the  daughter  of  the  Jew : 
"  Dearest,  how  those  eyes  delight  me ! 

Let  me  love  thee,  darling,  do  ! " 
"Vat  is  dishl"  the  Bailiff  mutter'd, 

Rushing  in  with  fury  wild ; 
"Ish  your  muffins  so  veil  butter'd 

Dat  you  darsh  insult  ma  shild  ? " 

*'  Honorable  my  intentions, 

Good  Abednego,  I  swear  ! 
And  I  have  some  small  pretensions, 

For  I  am  a  Baron's  heir. 
If  you'll  only  clear  my  credit, 

And  advance  a  thou*  or  so, 
She's  a  peeress — I  have  said  it : 

Don't  you  twig,  Abednego  ?  " 

"  Datsh  a  very  different  matter," 

Said  the  Bailiff,  with  a  leer ; 

"  But  you  musht  not  cut  it  fatter 

Than  ta  slish  will  shtand,  ma  tear! 
If  you  seeksh  ma  approbation. 

You  musht  quite  give  up  your  rigsh  ; 
Alsho  you  musht  join  our  nashun. 

And  renounsh  ta  flesh  of  pigsh." 

Fast  as  one  of  Fagin's  pupils, 

I.  O.  Uwins  did  agree ! 
Little  plagued  with  holy  scruples 

From  the  starting  post  was  he. 

*   I'he  fashioniible  abbreviation  for  a  tlinnsand  ponnda 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  77 

But  at  times  a  baleful  vision 

Rose  before  his  trembling  view, 
For  he  knew  that  circumcision 

Was  expected  from  a  Jew. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Rabbis 

Held  about  the  Whitsuntide, 
Was  this  thorough-paced  Barabbas 

Wedded  to  his  Hebrew  bride. 
All  his  former  debts  compounded, 

From  the  spunging  house  he  came. 
And  his  father's  feelings  wounded 

With  reflections  on  the  same. 

But  the  sire  his  son  accosted — 

"  Split  my  wig  !  if  any  more 
Such  a  double-dyed  apostate 

Shall  presume  to  cross  my  door ! 
Not  a  penny-piece  to  save  ye 

From  the  kennel  or  the  spout ; — 
Dmner,  John !  the  pig  and  gravy  ! — 

Kick  this  dirty  scoundrel  out ! " 

Forth  rush'd  I.  O.  Uwins  faster 

Than  all  winking — much  afraid, 
That  the  orders  of  the  master 

Would  be  punctually  obeyed  : 
Sought  his  club,  and  then  the  sentence 

Of  expulsion  first  he  saw  ; 
No  one  dared  to  own  acquaintance 

With  a  bailiif 's  son-in-law. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Uselessly  down  Bond-street  strutting 

Did  he  greet  his  friends  of  yore  : 
Such  a  universal  cutting 

Never  man  received  before : 
Till  at  last  his  pride  revolted — 

Pale,  and  lean,  and  stern  he  grew ; 
And  his  wife  Rebecca  bolted 

With  a  missionary  Jew. 

Ye  who  read  this  doleful  ditty, 

Ask  ye  where  is  Uwins  now  1 
Wend  your  way  through  London  city, 

Climb  to  Holborn's  lofty  brow. 
Near  the  sign-post  of  the  "  Nigger,** 

Near  the  baked-potato  shed, 
You  may  see  a  ghastly  figure 

With  three  hats  upon  his  head. 

When  the  evening  shades  are  dusky, 

Then  the  phantom  form  draws  near, 
And,  with  accents  low  and  husky, 

Pours  effluvium  in  your  ear  : 
Craving  an  immediate  barter 

Of  your  trousers  or  surtout. 
And  you  know  the  Hebrew  martyr, 

Once  the  peerless  I.  O.  U. 


THE    I5COK    OF    BALLADS. 


€llB  IntigjjtB  null  tjiB  €aiil|raur'H  DcugjitBr. 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  story — 

Old  the  legend  is  and  true — 
How  a  knyghte  of  fame  and  glory 

All  aside  his  armor  threw  ; 
Spouted  spear  and  pawned  habergeon, 

Pledged  his  sword  and  surcoat  gay, 
Sate  down  cross-legged  on  the  shop-board 

Sate  and  stitched  the  livelong  day  ? 

"  Taylzeour !  not  one  single  shilling 

Does  my  breeches'  pocket  hold : 
I  to  pay  am  really  willing. 

If  I  only  had  the  gold. 
Farmers  none  can  I  encounter. 

Graziers  there  are  none  to  kill ; 
Therefore,  prithee,  gentle  taylzeour, 

Bother  not  about  thy  bill." 

"  Good  Sir  Knyghte,  just  once  too  often 
Have  you  tried  that  slippery  tiick ; 

Hearts  like  mine  you  cannot  soften, 
Vainly  do  you  ask  for  tick. 


80  THE    BOOK    OF   JBALLADS. 

Qiristinas  and  its  bills  are  coming. 
Soon  will  they  be  showering  in ;, 

Therefore,  once  for  all,  my  rum  'un, 
I  expect  you  '11  post  the  tin. 

"  Mark,  ^  Knyghte,  that  gloomy  baylifle. 

In  the  palmer's  amice  brown ;, 
He  shall  lead  you  unto  jail,  if 

Instantly  you  stump  not  down.'^ 
Deeply  swore  the  young  crusader,, 

But  the  taylzeour  would  not  hear  ; 
And  the  gloomy  bearded  bayliffe 

Evermore  kept  sneaking  near. 

"  Neither  groat  nor  maravedi 

Have  I  got  my  soul  to  bless; 
And  I  feel  extremely  seedy, 

Languishing  in  vile  duresse. 
Therefore  listen,  ruthless  taylzeoui*. 

Take  my  steed  and  armor  free,. 
Pawn  them  at  thy  Hebrew  uncle's. 

And  I'll  work  the  rest  for  thee." 

Lightly  leaped  he  on,  the  shop-board. 

Lightly  crooked  his  manly  limb. 
Lightly  drove  the  glancing  needle 

Through  the  growing  doublet's  rim. 
Gaberdines  in  countless  number 

Did  the  taylzeour-knyghte  repair! 
And  the  cabbage  and  cucumber 

Were  his  sole  and  simple  faro. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Once  his  weary  task  beguiling 

With  a  low  and  plaintive  song, 
That  good  knyghte  o'er  miles  of  broadcloth 

Drove  the  hissing  goose  along ; 
From  her  lofty  lattice  window, 

Looked  the  taylzeour's  daughter  down. 
And  she  instantly  discovered 

That  her  heart  was  not  her  own. 

"  Canst  thou  love  me,  gentle  stranger  1" 

Blushing  like  a  rose  she  stood — 
And  the  knyghte  at  once  admitted, 

That  he  rather  thought  he  could. 
"  He  who  weds  me  shall  have  riches. 

Gold,  and  lands,  and  houses  free." 
"  For  a  single  pair  of — small  clothes^ 

I  would  roam  the  world  with  thee !" 

Then  she  flung  him  down  the  tickets — 

Well  the  knyghte  their  import  knew — 
"  Take  this  gold,  and  win  thy  armor. 

From  the  unbelieving  Jew. 
Though  in  garments  mean  and  lowly, 

Thou  wouldst  roam  the  world  with  me, 
Only  as  a  belted  warrior. 

Stranger,  will  I  wed  with  thee !" 

At  the  feast  of  good  Saint  Alban, 

In  the  middle  of  the  Spring, 

There  was  some  superior  jousting 

By  the  order  of  the  king. 
4* 


82  THB    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

*'  Valiant  knyghtes !"  exclaimed  the  monarch, 
"  You  will  please  to  understand, 

He  who  bears  himself  most  bravely, 
Shall  obtain  my  daughter's  hand." 

Well  and  bravely  did  they  bear  them, 

Bravely  battled,  one  and  all ; 
But  the  bravest  in  the  tourney 

Was  a  warrior  stout  and  tall. 
None  could  tell  his  name  or  lineage, 

None  could  meet  him  in  the  field. 
And  a  goose  regardant  proper 

Hissed  along  his  azure  shield, 

"  Warrior,  thou  hast  won  my  daughter  !** 

But  the  champion  bowed  his  knee, 
"  Princely  blood  may  not  be  wasted 

On  a  simple  knyghte  like  me. 
She  I  love  is  meek  and  lowly ; 

But  her  heart  is  high  and  frank ; 
And  there  must  be  tin  forthcoming, 

That  will  do  as  well  as  rank." 

Slowly  rose  that  nameless  warrior, 

Slowly  turned  his  steps  aside, 
Passed  the  lattice  where  the  princess 

Sate  in  beauty,  sate  in  pride. 
Passed  the  row  of  noble  ladies, 

Hied  him  to  an  humbler  seat, 
And  in  silence  laid  the  chaplet 

At  the  taylzcuur's  daughter's  feet. 


THB    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  B3 


€^  BMglrt  ^istt. 


It  was  the  Lord  of  Castlereagh,  he  sat  within  his  room, 
His  arms  were  crossed  upon  his  breast,  his  face  was 

marked  with  gloom ; 
They  said  that  St.  Helena's  Isle  had  rendered  up  its 

charge. 
That  France  was  bristling  high  in  arms, — the  Emperor 

at  large. 

Twas  midnight !  all  the  lamps  were  dim,  and  dull  as 

death  the  street, 
It  might  be  that  the  watchman  slept  that  night  upon  his 

beat, 
When,  lo !  a  heavy  foot  was  heard  to  creak  upon  the 

stair, 
The  door  revolved  upon  its  hinge, — Great  Heaven! — 

What  enters  there  ? 

A  little  man,  of  stately  mien,  with  slow  and   solemn 

stride ; 
His  hands  are  crossed  upon  his  back,  his  coat  is  opened 

wide : 


84  THK    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

And  on  his  vest  of  green  he  wears  an  eagle  and  a 
star, — 

Saint  George !  protect  us !  't  is  The  Man — the  thunder- 
bolt of  war ! 

Is  that  the  famous  hat  that  waved  along  Marengo's 

ridge  1 
Are  these  the  spurs  of  Austerlitz — the  boots  of  Lodi's 

bridge  ? 
Leads  he  the  conscript  swarm  again  from  France's  hornet 

hive? 
What  seeks  the  fell  usurper  here,  in  Britain,  and  alive  1 

Pale  grew  the  Lord   of  Castlereagh,  his   tongue  was 

parched  and  dry, 
As  in  his  brain  he  felt  the  glare  of  that  tremendous  eye; 
What  wonder  if  he  shrunk  in  fear,  for  who  could  meet 

the  glance 
Of  him  who  reared,  'mid  Russian  snows,  the  gonfalon 

of  France  ? 

From  the  side-pocket  of  his  vest,  a  pinch  the  despot 

took, 
Yet  not  a  whit  did  he  relax  the  sternness  of  his  look, — 
"  Thou  thought'st  the  lion  was  afar,  but  he  hath  burst 

the  chain — 
The  watchword  for  to-night  is  France — the  answer,  St. 

Helene. 

"  And  didst  thou  deem  the  barren  isle,  or  ocean  waves, 

could  bind 
The  ma'^ter  of  the  universe — thfi  monarch  of  mankind? 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  85 

I  tell  thee,  fool !  the  world  itself  is  all  too  small  for  me, 
I  laugh  to  scorn  thy  bolts  and  bars — I  burst  them,  and 
am  free. 

"Thou  think'st  that  England  hates  me!  Mark !— This 

very  night  my  name 
Was  thundered  in  its  capital  with  tumult  and  acclaim  ! 
They  saw  me,  knew  me,  owned  my  power — Proud  lord ! 

I  say,  beware ! 
There  be  men  within  the  Surrey  side,  who  know  to  do 

and  dare ! 

"To-morrow,  in  thy  very  teeth,  my  standard  will  I  rear — 
Ay,  well  that  ashen  cheek  of  thine   may  blanch  and 

shrink  with  fear ! 
To-morrow  night  another  town   shall   sink  in  ghastly 

flames ; 
And   as   I   crossed   the  Borodin,  so  shall   I   cross  the 

Thames ! 

"Thou  'It  seize  me,  wilt  thou,  ere  the  dawn?     Weak 

lordling,  do  thy  worst? 
These  hands  ere  now  have  broke  thy  chams,  thy  fetters 

they  have  burst. 
Yet,  wouldst  thou  know  my  resting-place  ?     Behold  't  is 

written  there ! 
And  let  thy  coward  myrmidons  approach  me  if  they 

dare !" 

Another  pinch,  another  stride — he  passes  through  the 

door — 
"  Was  it  a  phantom  or  a  man  Mas  slancliiig  on  iho  floor? 


so 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


Ana  could  that  be  the  Emperor  that  moved  before  my 

eyes? 
Ah,  yes !    too  sure  it  was  himself,  for  here  the  paper 

lies!" 

With  trembling  hands,  Lord  Castlereagh  undid  the  mys- 
tic scroll, 

With  glassy  eye  essayed  to  read,  for  fear  was  on  his 
soul — 

What's  here  ? — '  At  Astley's,  every  night,  the  play  of 
Moscow's  Fall  ! 

Napoleon  for  the  thousandth  time,  by  Mr.  Gomersal  !" 


THK   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


tn 


Comrades,  you  may  pass  the  rosy.     With  permission 

of  the  chair, 
I  shall  leave  you  for  a  little,  for  I'd  like  to  take  the  air. 

Whether  't  was  the  sauce  at  dinner,  or  that  glass  of  gin- 
ger beer. 

Or  these  strong  cheroots,  I  know  not,  but  I  feel  a  little 
queer. 

Let  me  go.     Now,  Chuckster,  blow  me,  'pon  my  soul, 

this  is  too  bad  ! 
When  you  want  me,  ask  the  waiter,  he  knows  where 

I'm  to  be  had. 

Whew  !     This  is  a  great  relief  now  !     Let  me  but  undo 

my  stock. 
Resting  here  beneath  the  porch,  my  nerves  will  steady 

like  a  rock. 

In  my  ears  I  hear  the  singing  of  a  lot  of  favorite  tunes — 
Bless  my  heart,  how  very  odd !     Why,  surely  there's  a 
brace  of  moons ! 


88  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

See !  the  stars !  how  bright  they  twinkle,  winking  with 

a  frosty  glare, 
Like  my  faithless  cousin  Amy  when  she  drove  me  to 

despair. 

O,   my   cousin,  spider-hearted !     Oh,   my  Amy !     No, 

confound  it ! 
I  must  wear  the  mournful  willow, — all  around  my  hat 

I've  bound  it. 

Falser  than  the  Bank  of  Fancy, — frailer  than  a  shilling 

glove, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  anger, — minion  to  a  nabob's  love ! 

Is   it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ?     Having  known  me, 

could  you  ever 
Stoop  to  marry  half  a  heart,  and  little  more  than  half  a 

liver  1 

Happy  !     Damme  !     Thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day 

by  day, 
Changing  from  the  best  of  China  to  the  commonest  of 

clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is, — ^he  is  stomach-plagued 

and  old ; 
And  his  curry  soups  will  make  thy  cheek  the  color  of 

his  gold. 

When  his  feeble  love  is  sated,  he  will  hold  thee  surely 

then 
Something  lower  than  his  hookah, — something  less  than 

his  cayenne. 


THK    BOOK    OF    BALLAI>S.  89 

"What  is  tliisl     His  eyes  are  pinky.     Was't  the  claret? 

Oh,  no,  no, — 
Bless  your  soul,  it  was  the   salmon, — salmon  always 

makes  him  so. 

Take  him  to  thy  dainty  chamber — soothe  him  with  thy 

lightest  fancies, 
He  will  understand  thee,  won't  he? — pay  thee  with  a 

lover's  glances? 

Louder  than  the   loudest  trumpet,  harsh  as  harshest 

ophicleide. 
Nasal  respirations  answer  the  endearments  of  his  bride. 

Sweet  response,  delightful  music  !    Gaze  upon  thy  noble 

charge 
Till   the  spirit  fill  thy  bosom  that  inspired  the  meek 

Laffarge. 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me, — better,  better  that  I 

stood 
Looking  on  thy  murdered  body,  like  the  injured  Daniel 

Good! 

Better,  thou  and  I  were  lying,  cold  and  timber-stiff  and 

dead, 
With  a  pan  of  burning  charcoal  underneath  our  nuptial 

bed! 

Cursed  be  the  bank  of  England's  notes,  that  tempt  the 

soul  to  sin ! 
Cursed  be  the  want  of  acres, — doubly  cursed  the  want 

uftin! 


90  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Cursed  be  the  marriage  contract,  that  enslaved  thy  soul 

to  greed ! 
Cursed  be  the  sallow  lawyer,  that  prepared  and  drew 

the  deed ! 

Cursed  be  his  foul  apprentice,  who  the  loathsome  fees 

did  earn ! 
Cursed  be  the  clerk  and  parson, — cursed  be  the  whole 

concern! 


Oh,  't  is  well  that  I  should  bluster, — much  I'm  like  to 

make  of  that ; 
Better  comfort  have  I  found  in  singing  "  All  Around  my 

Hat." 

But  that  song,  so  wildly  plaintive,  palls  upon  my  British 

ears. 
'T  will  not  do  to  pine  for  ever, — I  am  getting  up  in 

years. 

Can't  I  turn  the  honest  penny,  scribbling  for  the  weekly 
press. 

And  in  writing  Sunday  libels  drown  my  private  wretch- 
edness ? 

Oh,  to  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  in  manhood's  dawn  I 

knew. 
When  my  days  were  all  before  me,  and  my  years  were 

twenty-two. 


THB    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  §t 

When  1  smoked  my  independent  pipe  along  the  Quad- 
rant wide, 

With  the  many  larks  of  London  flaring  up  on  every 
side.  ■  ^ 

When  I  went  the  pace  so  wildly,  caring  little  what  might 

come, 
Coffee-milling   care   and   sorrow,   with  a  nose-adapted 

thumb. 

Felt  the  exquisite  enjoyment,  tossing  nightly  off",   oh 

heavens ! 
Brandy  at  the  Cider  Cellars,  kidneys  smoking-hot  at 

Evans' ! 

Or  in  the  Adelphi  sitting,  half  in  rapture,  half  in  tears, 
Saw  the  glorious  melo-drama  conjure  up  the  shades  of 
years! 

Saw  Jack  Sheppard,  noble  stripling,  act  his  wondrous 

feats  again. 
Snapping  Newgate's  bars  of  iron,  like  an  infant's  daisy 

chain. 

Might  was  right,  and  all  the  terrors  which  had  held  the 

world  in  awe 
Were  despised,  and  prigging  prospered,  spite  of  Laurie, 

spite  of  law. 

In  such  scenes  as  these  I  triumphed,  ere  my  passion's 
edge  was  rusted. 

And  my  cousin's  cold  refusal  left  me  very  much  dis- 
gusted ! 


93  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Since,  my  heart  is  sere  and  withered,  and  I  do  not  caw 

a  curse 
Whether  worse  shall  be  the  better,  or  the  better  be  the 

worse. 

Hark  !  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  bawling  for  another 

jorum ; 
They  would  mock  me  in  derision,  should  I  thus  appear 

before  'em. 

Womankind  no  more  shall  vex  me,  such  at  least,  as  go 

arrayed 
In  the  most  expensive  satins,  and  the  newest  silk  brocade. 

I  '11  to  Afric,  lion-haunted,  where  the  giant  forest  yields 
Rarer   robes   and  finer  tissue  than  are  sold  at  Spital 
fields. 

Or  to   burst   all   chains  of   habit,  flinging  habit's  self 

aside, 
I  shall  walk  the  tangled  jungle  in  mankind's  primeval 

pride ; 

Feeding   on   the  luscious  berries  and  the  rich  cassava 

root, 
Lots  of  dates  and  lots  of  guavas,  clusters  of  forbidden 

fruit. 

Never  comes  the  trader  thither,  never  o'er  the  purple 

main 
Sounds  the  oath  of  British  commerce,  or  the  accents  of 

Cockaigne. 


THE    BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  93 

There,  methinks,  would  be  enjoyment,  where  no  environs 

rule  prevents ; 
Sink  the  steamboats !   cuss  the  railways !   rot,  O  rot  the 

Three  per  Cents ! 

There  the  passions,  cramped  no  longer,  shall  have  space 

to  breathe,  my  cousin  ! 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman — ^nay,  I  '11  take  at  least 

a  dozen. 

There  I  '11  rear  my  young  mulattoes,  as  no  Bond  Street 

brats  are  reared : 
They  shall  dive  for  aligators,  catch  the  wild  goats  by  the 

beard — 

Whistle   to   the  cockatoos,  and   mock   the   hairy-faced 

baboon. 
Worship  mighty  Mumbo  Jumbo  in  the  Mountains  of 

the  Moon. 

I  myself,  in  far  Timbuctoo,  leopard's  blood  will  daily 

quaff, 
Ride  a  tiger-hunting,  mounted  on  a  thorough-bred  giraife. 

Fiercely  shall  I  shout  the  war-whoop,  as  some  sullen 
stream  he  crosses. 

Startling  from  their  noon-day  slumbers,  iron-bound  rhino- 
ceroses. 

Fool !    again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !     But  I  know  my 

words  are  mad, 
For  I  hold  the  grey  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian 

cad. 


94  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

I  the  swell — the  city  dandy  !  I  to  seek  such  horrid 
places, — 

1  to  haunt  with  squalid  negroes,  blubber-lips,  and  mon- 
key faces. 

I  to  wed  with  Coromantees!     I,  who  managed — very 

near — 
To  secure  the  heart  and  fortune  of  the  widow  Shilli- 

beer  1 

Stuflf  and  nonsense !   let  me  never  fling  a  single  chance 

away, 
Maids  ere  now,  I  know,  have  loved  me,  and  another 

maiden  may. 

"  Morning  Post,"  ("The  Times"  won't  trust  me)  help 

me,  as  I  know  you  can ; 
I  will  pen  an  advertisement, — that  's  a  never-failing 

plan. 

"Wanted — By  a  bard  in  wedlock,  some  young  inter- 
esting woman : 
Looks  are  not  so  much  an  object,  if  the  shiners  be  forth- 


coming 


"  Hymen's  chains,  the  advertiser  vows,  shall  be  but  silken 

fetters. 
Please  address  to  A.  T.,  Chelsea.     N.  B. — You  must  pay 

the  letters." 

That  's  the  sort  of  thing  to  do  it.     Now  1  '11  go  and 

taste  the  balmy, — 
Rest  thee  with  thy  yellow  nabob,  spider-hearted  cousin 

Amy ! 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  05' 


Decked  with  shoes  of  blackest  polish, 

And  with  shirt  as  white  as  snow, 
After  matutinal  breakfast 

To  my  daily  desk  I  go ; 
First  a  fond  salute  bestowing 

On  my  Mary's  ruby  lips, 
Which,  perchance,  may  be  rewarded 

With  a  pair  of  playful  nips. 

All  day  long  across  the  ledger 

Still  my  patient  pen  I  drive. 
Thinking  what  a  feast  awaits  me 

In  my  happy  home  at  five ; 
In  my  small,  one-storied  Eden, 

Where  my  wife  awaits  my  coming. 
And  our  solitary  handmaid 

Mutton  chops  with  care  is  crumbing. 

When  the  clock  proclaims  my  freedom. 

Then  my  hat  I  seize  and  vanish ; 
Every  trouble  from  my  bosom, 

Every  anxious  care  I  banish. 


96  THB   BOOK    OF   BALLa1>^. 

Swiftly  brushing  o'er  the  pavement, 

At  a  furious  pace  I  go, 
Till  I  reach  my  darling  dwelling 

In  the  wilds  of  Pimlico. 

*'  Mary,  wife,  where  art  thou,  dearest  ?" 

Thus  I  cry,  while  yet  afar ; 
Ah !  what  scent  invades  my  nostrils  ?— 

'T  is  the  smoke  of  a  cigar ! 
Instantly  into  the  parlor 

Like  a  maniac  I  haste. 
And  I  find  a  young  Life-Guardsman, 

With  his  arm  round  Mary's  waist. 

And  his  other  hand  is  playing 

Most  familiarly  with  hers  ; 
And  I  think  my  Brussels  carpet 

Somewhat  damaged  by  his  spurs. 
"  Fire  and  furies !  what  the  blazes  ?" 

Thus  in  frenzied  wrath  I  call ; 
When  my  spouse  her  arms  upraises, 

With  a  most  astounding  squall. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  monster : 

Ever  such  a  wretched  wife  ? 
Ah !  how  long  must  I  endure  it : 

How  protract  this  hateful  life  ? 
All  day  long  quite  unprotected, 

Does  he  leave  his  wife  at  home  j 
And  she  cannot  see  her  cousins, 

Even  when  they  kindly  come !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  97 

Then  the  young  Life-Guardsman,  rishig, 

Scarce  vouchsafes  a  single  word, 
But  with  look  of  deadly  menace, 

Claps  his  hand  upon  his  sword; 
And  in  fear  I  faintly  falter — 

"  This  your  cousin,  then  he  's  mine  \ 
Very  glad,  indeed,  to  see  you, — 

Won't  you  stop  with  us,  and  dine  ?" 

Won't  a  ferret  suck  a  rabbit  ? — 

As  a  thing  of  course  he  stops  ; 
And,  with  most  voracious  swallow 

Walks  into  my  mutton  chops. 
In  the  twinkling  of  a  bed-post, 

Is  each  savoury  platter  clear, 
And  he  shows  uncommon  scienco; 

In  his  estimate  of  beer. 

Hal!f  and-half  goes  down  before  him. 

Gurgling  from  the  pewter-pot  y 
And  he  moves  a  counter  motion 

For  a  glass  of  something  hot. 
Neither  chops  nor  beer  I  grudge  him, 

Nor  a  moderate  share  of  goes  ; 
But  I  know  not  why  he's  always 

Treading  upon  Mary's  toes. 

Evermore,  when  home  returning^ 

From  the  counting  house  I  come, 

Do  I  find  the  young  Life-Guardsman 

Smoking  pipes  and  drinking  rum, 
5 


9^  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS, 

Evermore  he  stays  to  dinner, 
Evermoi'e  devours  my  meal  j 

For  I  have  a  wholesome  horror 
Both  of  powder  and  of  steel. 

Yet  I  know  he  's  Mary's  cousin, 

For  my  only  son  and  heir 
Much  resembles  that  young  Guardsman, 

With  the  self-same  curly  hair  • 
But  I  wish  he  would  not  always 

Spoil  my  carpet  with  his  spurs  j 
And  I  'd  rather  see  his  fingers 

In  the  fire,  than  touching  hers. 


TBE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  9S:) 


Cju  (£innn  in  jfxmn. 


AN  AirCIENT   SCOTTISH   BALLAD. 


It  fell  upon  the  August  month, 
When  landsmen  bide  at  hame, 

That  our  gude  Queen  went  out  to  sail 
Upon  the  saut-sea  faem. 

And  she  has  ta'en  the  silk  and  gowd, 

The  like  was  never  seen  ; 
And  she  has  ta'en  the  Prince  Albert, 

And  the  bauld  Lord  Aberdeen. 

"  Ye'se  bide  at  hame,  Lord  Wellington : 

Ye  dauma  gang  wi'  me  : 
For  ye  hae  been  ance  in  the  land  o'  Franc* 

And  that 's  eneuch  for  ye." 

"  Ye'se  bide  at  hame.  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
To  gather  the  red  and  the  white  monie ; 

And  see  that  my  men  dinna  eat  me  up 
At  Windsor  wi'  their  gluttonie." 


J  00  THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, — 

A  league,  but  barely  twa. 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  waves  grew  wan. 

And  the  wind  began  to  blaw. 

"  O  weel,  weel  may  the  waters  rise, 

In  welcome  o'  their  Queen  ; 
What  gars  ye  look  sae  white,  Albert  1 

What  makes  your  e'e  sae  green  ?" 

"  My  heart  is  sick,  my  held  is  sair : 

Gie  me  a  glass  o'  gude  brandie  : 
To  set  my  foot  on  the  braid  green  sward. 

I  'd  gie  the  half  o'  my  yearly  fee. 

*'  It 's  sweet  to  hunt  the  sprightly  hare 
On  the  bonny  slopes  o'  Windsor  lea, 

But  O,  it 's  ill  to  bear  the  thud 

And  pitching  o'  the  saut,  saut  sea !" 

And  aye  they  sailed,  and  aye  they  sailed, 

Till  England  sank  behind, 
And  over  to  the  coast  of  France 

They  drave  before  the  wind. 

Then  up  and  spak  the  King  o'  France, 

Was  birling  at  the  wine ; 
"  O  wha  may  be  the  gay  ladye 

Tftat  owns  that  ship  sae  fine  ? 

"  And  wha  may  be  that  bonny  lad, 

That  looks  sae  pale  and  wan  ? 
I  '11  wad  my  lands  o'  Picardie 

That  he  's  nae  Englishman." 


THE    BOOK    OP    BALLADS.  101 

Then  up  and  spak  an  auld  French  lord, 

Was  sitting  beneath  his  knee, 
"  It  is  the  Queen  o'  braid  England 

That's  come  across  the  sea." 

"  And  O  an  it  be  England's  Queen, 

She's  welcome  here  the  day  ; 
I  'd  rather  hae  her  for  a  friend 

Than  for  a  deadly  fae. 

"  Gae,  kill  the  eerock  in  the  yard, 

The  auld  sow  in  the  stye, 
And  bake  for  her  the  brockit  calf, 

But  and  the  puddock-pie  !" 

And  he  has  gane  until  the  ship. 

As  sune  as  it  drew  near, 
And  he  has  ta'en  her  by  the  hand — 

"  Ye  're  kindly  welcome  here  !" 

And  syne  he  kissed  her  on  ae  cheek. 

And  syne  upon  the  ither  ; 
And  he  ea'ed  her  his  sister  dear, 

And  she  ca'ed  him  her  brither. 

"  Light  doun,  light  doun  now,  layde  mine. 

Light  doun  upon  the  shore ; 
Nae  English  king  has  trodden  here, 

This  thousand  years  and  more." 

"  And  gin  I  lighted  on  your  land, 

As  light  fu'  weel  I  may, 
O  am  I  free  to  feast  wi'  you, 

And  free  to  come  and  gae  ?" 


t03  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

And  he  has  sworn  by  the  Haly  Rood, 
And  the  black  stane  o'  Dumblane, 

That  she  is  free  to  come  and  gae 
Till  twenty  days  are  gane. 

"  I  've  lippened  to  a  Frenchman's  aith," 

Said  gude  Lord  Aberdeen ; 
"  But  I  'II  never  lippen  to  it  again 

Sae  lang  's  the  grass  is  green. 

"  Yet  gae  your  ways,  my  sovereign  liege, 

Since  better  may  na  be ; 
The  wee  bit  bairns  are  safe  at  hame, 

By  the  blessing  o'  Marie !" 

Then  doun  she  lighted  frae  the  ship, 

She  lighted  safe  and  sound; 
And  glad  was  our  good  Prince  Albert 

To  step  upon  the  groimd. 

"  Is  that  your  Queen,  My  Lord,"  she  said, 

"  That  auld  and  buirdly  dame  ? 
I  see  the  crown  upon  her  held ; 

But  I  dinna  ken  her  name." 

And  she  has  kissed  the  Frenchman's  Queen, 

And  eke  her  daughters  three, 
And  gi'en  her  hand  to  the  young  Princess 

That  louted  upon  the  knee. 

And  she  has  gane  to  the  proud  castle, 

That 's  biggit  beside  the  sea : 
But  aye,  when  she  thought  o'  the  bairns  at  hame, 

The  tear  was  in  her  e'e. 


THE    15U0K    OF    UALLADS. 


lOS 


She  gied  the  King  the  Cheshire  cheese, 

But  and  the  porter  fine ; 
And  he  gied  her  the  puddock-pies, 

But  and  the  blude-red  wine. 

Then  up  and  spak  the  dourest  prince, 

An  Admiral  was  he ; 
"  Let 's  keep  the  Queen  o'  England  here, 

iSin'  better  may  na  be ! 

•'  O  mony  is  the  dainty  king 

That  we  hae  trappit  here ; 
And  mony  is  the  English  yerl 

That 's  in  our  dungeons  drear !" 

"  You  lee,  you  lee,  ye  graceless  loon, 

Sae  loud  's  I  hear  ye  lee ! 
There  never  yet  was  Englishman 

That  came  to  skaith  by  me. 

"  Gae  out,  gae  out,  ye  fause  traitor ! 

Gae  out  until  the  street ; 
It 's  shame  that  Kings  and  Queens  should  sit 

Wi'  sic  a  knave  at  meat !" 

Then  up  and  raise  the  young  French  lord, 

In  wrath  and  hie  disdain- — 
"  O  ye  may  sit,  and  ye  may  eat 

Your  puddock-pies  alane ! 

"  But  were  I  in  my  ain  gude  ship, 

And  sailing  wi'  the  wind. 
And  did  I  meet  wi'  auld  Napier, 

I  'd  tell  him  o'  my  mind." 


104  THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

O  then  the  Queen  leuch  loud  and  lang. 
And  her  color  went  and  came ; 

"  Gin  ye  met  wi'  Charlie  on  the  sea 
Ye  'd  wish  yersell  at  hame  !" 

And  aye  they  birlit  at  the  wine, 

And  drank  right  merrDie, 
Till  the  auld  cock  crawed  in  the  castle-yar'*. 

And  the  abbey  bell  struck  three. 

The  Queen  she  gaed  until  her  bed^ 

And  Prince  Albert  likewise ; 
And  the  last  word  that  gay  ladye  said 

Was — "  O  thae  puddock-pies  1" 


PART  ir. 

The  sun  was  high  within  the  lift 
Afore  the  French  King  raise  ; 

And  syne  he  louped  intil  his  sark. 
And  warslit  on  his  claes. 

*'  Gae  up,  gae  up,  my  little  foot-page, 

Gae  up  until  the  toun;^ 
And  gin  ye  meet  wi'  the  auld  harper, 

Be  sure  ye  bring  him  doun." 

And  he  has  met  wi'  the  auld  harper; 

O  but  his  e'en  were  red ; 
And  the  bizzing  o'  a  swarm  o'  bees 

Was  singing  in  his  heid^ 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  105 

"  Alack !  alack !"  the  harper  said, 

"  That  this  should  e'er  hae  been ! 
I  daurna  gang  before  my  liege, 

For  I  was  fou  yestreen." 

"  It  's  ye  maun  come,  ye  auld  harper : 

Ye  daurna  tarry  lang ; 
The  King  is  just  dementit-like 

For  wanting  o'  a  sang." 

And  when  he  came  to  the  King's  chamber. 

He  loutit  on  his  knee, 
"  O  what  may  be  your  gracious  will 

Wi'  an  auld  frail  man  like  me  ?" 

"  I  want  a  sang,  harper,"  he  said, 
^  "  I  want  a  sang  richt  speedilie ; 
And  gin  ye  dinna  make  a  sang, 

1  '11  hang  ye  up  on  the  gallows-tree." 

"I  cannot  do  't,  my  liege,"  he  said, 

"  Hae  mercy  on  my  auld  gray  hair ! 
But  gin  that  I  had  got  the  words, 

I  think  that  I  might  mak  the  air." 

"And  wha  's  to  mak  the  words,  fause  loon. 
When  minstrels  we  have  barely  twa  ; 

And  Lamartine  is  in  Paris  toun. 
And  Victor  Hugo  far  awa?" 

"  The  deil  may  gang  for  Lamartine, 

And  flie  awa  wi'  auld  Hugo, 

For  a  better  minstrel  than  them  baith 

Within  this  very  toun  I  know. 
5* 


106  THK   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  O  kens  my  liege  the  gude  Walter, — 
At  hame  they  ca'  him  Bon  Gaultier? 

He  '11  rhyme  ony  day  wi'  True  Thomas^ 
And  he  is  in  the  castle  here." 

The  French  King  first  he  lauchit  loud, 
And  syne  did  he  begin  to  sing ; 

"  My  e'en  are  auld,  and  my  heart  is  cauld, 
Or  I  suld  hae  known  the  minstrels'  King. 

"  Gae  take  to  him  this  ring  o'  gowd, 
And  this  mantle  o'  the  silk  sae  fine, 

And  bid  him  mak  a  maister  sang 

For  his  sovereign  ladye's  sake  and  mine." 

"  I  winna  take  the  gowden  ring, 

Nor  yet  the  mantle  fine : 
But  I'll  mak  the  sang  for  my  ladye's  sake, 

And  for  a  cup  of  wine." 

The  Queen  was  sitting  at  the  cardsy 

The  King  ahint  her  back ; 
And  aye  she  dealed  the  red  honors. 

And  aye  she  dealed  the  black ; 

And  syne  unto  the  dourest  Prince 
She  spak  richt  courteouslie : — 

"  Now  will  ye  play.  Lord  Admiral, 
Now  will  ye  play  wi'  me  1" 

The  dourest  prince  he  bit  his  lip. 
And  his  brow  was  black  as  glaur : 

"  The  only  game  that  e'er  I  play 
Is  the  bluidy  game  o'  war  !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  107 

"  And  gin  ye  play  at  that,  young  man, 

It  weel  may  cost  ye  sair  ; 
Ye  'd  better  stick  to  the  game  at  cards, 

For  you  '11  win  nae  honors  there  !" 

The  King  he  Icuch,  and  the  Queen  she  leuch, 

Till  the  tears  ran  blithely  doun ; 
But  the  Admiral  he  raved  and  swore, 

Till  they  kicked  him  frae  the  room. 

The  Harper  came,  and  the  Harper  sang, 

And  O  but  they  were  fain ; 
For  when  he  had  sung  the  gude  sang  twice, 

They  called  for  it  again. 

It  was  the  sang  o'  the  Field  o'  Gowd, 

In  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne ; 
When  bauld  King  Henry  crossed  the  seas, 

Wi'  his  brither  King  to  dine. 

And  aye  he  harped,  and  aye  he  carped. 

Till  up  the  Queen  she  sprang — 
"  I  '11  wad  a  County  Palatine, 

Gude  Walter  made  that  sang." 

Three  days  had  come,  three  days  had  gane, 

The  fourth  began  to  fa'. 
When  our  gude  Queen  to  the  Frenchman  said, 

"  It 's  time  I  was  awa  ! 

"  O,  bonny  are  the  fields  o'  France, 

And  saftly  draps  the  rain  ; 
But  my  bairnies  are  in  Windsor  Tower, 

And  greeting  a'  their  lane. 


108  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS^ 

"  Now  ye  mauu  come  to  me,  Sir  King, 

As  I  have  come  to  ye ; 
And  a  benison  upon  your  heid 

For  a'  your  courtesie ! 

"  Ye  maun  come,  and  bring  your  ladye  fere : 

Ye  sail  na  say  me  no ; 
And  ye  'se  mind,  we  have  aye  a  bed  to  spare 

For  your  wUy  friend  Guizot." 

Now  he  has  ta'en  her  lily  white  hand, 

And  put  it  to  his  lip, 
And  he  has  ta'en  her  to  the  strand, 

And  left  her  in  her  ship. 

"  Will  ye  come  back,  sweet  bird,"  he  cried, 

"  Will  ye  come  kindly  here. 
When  the  lift  is  blue,  and  the  lavrocks  sing, 

In  the  spring-time  o'  the  year  ?" 

"  It 's  I  would  blithely  come,  my  Lord, 

To  see  ye  in  the  spring  ; 
It 's  I  would  blithely  venture  back. 

But  for  ae  little  thing. 

"  It  is  na  that  the  winds  are  rude, 

Or  that  the  waters  rise. 
But  I  lo'e  the  roasted  beef  at  hame. 

And  no  thae  puddock-pies  !" 


THK    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  109 


€in»  BflssarrB  of  tljj  BaqijiFrsnn. 


FROM    THE    GAELIC. 


Fhairston  swore  a  feud 

Against  the  clan  M'Tavish  ; 
Marched  into  their  land 

To  murder  and  to  rafish : 
For  he  did  resolve 

To  extirpate  the  vipers, 
With  four  and-twenty  men, 

And  five-and- thirty  pipers. 


But  when  he  had  gone 

Halfway  down  Strath  Caiiaan, 
Of  his  fighting  tail 

Just  three  were  remainin'. 
They  were  all  he  had, 

To  back  him  in  ta  battle ; 
All  the  rest  had  gone 

Off,  to  drive  ta  cattle. 


110  TH£    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

in. 

"  Fery  coot !"  cried  Fhairshon, 

"  So  my  clan  disgraced  is ; 
Lads,  we  '11  need  to  fight 

Pefore  we  touch  the  peasties. 
Here  's  Mhic-Mac-Methusalen 

Coming  wi'  his  fassals, 
Gillies  seventy-three, 

And  sixty  Dhuinewassails !" 

IV. 

"  C!oot  tay  to  you,  sir ; 

Are  not  you  ta  Fhairshon  *? 
Was  you  coming  here 

To  visit  any  person  ? 
You  are  a  plackguard.  sir ! 

It  is  now  six  hundred 
Coot  long  years,  and  more, 

Since  my  glen  was  plundered." 

V. 

Fat  is  tat  you  say  ? 

Dar  you  cock  your  peaver? 
I  will  teach  you,  sir, 

Fat  is  coot  pehavior ! 
You  shall  not  exist 

For  another  day  more  ; 
I  will  shot  you,  sir. 

Or  stap  you  with  my  claymore !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  \hll 


VI. 


"  I  am  fery  glad 

To  learn  what  you  mention, 
Since  I  can  prevent 

Any  such  intention." 
So  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Gave  some  warlike  howls, 
Trew  his  skhian-dhu, 

An'  stuck  it  in  his  powels. 

vn. 

Id  this  fery  way 

Tied  ta  faliant  Fhairshon, 
Who  was  always  thought 

A  superior  person. 
Fhairshon  had  a  son, 

Who  married  Noah's  daughter, 
And  nearly  spoiled  ta  Flood, 

By  trinking  up  ta  water. 

vni. 

Which  he  would  have  done, 

I  at  least  believe  it. 
Had  ta  mixture  peen 

Only  half  Glenlivet. 
This  is  all  my  tale : 

Sirs,  1  hope  't  is  new  t'  ye ! 
Here  's  your  fery  good  healths, 

And  tamn  ta  whusky  tuty  ! 


112  THB   BOOK    OF    BALLA.OB. 


€^i  '':^nttng  ItntkknkFr's  l^rik 

'•  O  SWIFTLY  speed  the  gallant  bark ! — 

I  say,  you  mind  my  luggage,  porter  ! 
1  do  not  heed  yon  storm-cloud  dark, 

I  go  to  wed  old  Jenkin's  daughter. 
I  go  to  claim  my  own  Mariar, 

The  fairest  flower  that  blooms  in  Harwich ; 
My  panting  bosom  is  on  fire, 

And  all  is  ready  for  the  marriage." 

Thus  spoke  young  Mivins,  as  he  stepped 

On  board  the  "  Firefly,"  Harwich  packet ; 
The  bell  rung  out,  the  paddles  swept 

Plish-plashing  round  with  noisy  racket. 
The  lowering  clouds  young  Mivins  saw. 

But  fear,  he  felt,  was  only  folly  ; 
And  so  he  smoked  a  fresh  cigar. 

Then  fell  to  whistling—"  Nix  my  dolly !" 

The  wind  it  roared ;  the  packet's  hulk 
Rocked  with  a  most  unpleasant  motion  ; 

Young  Mivins  leant  him  o'er  a  bulk. 
And  poured  his  sorrows  to  the  ocean. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLaDS.  118 

Tints — blue  and  yellow — signs  of  wo— 
Flushed,  rainbow-like,  his  noble  face  in, 

As  suddenly  he  rushed  below, 

Crying,  "  Steward,  steward,  bring  a  basin !" 

On  sped  the  bark :  the  howling  storm 

The  funnel's  tapering  smoke  did  blow  far  ; 
Unmoved,  young  Mivins'  lifeless  form 

Was  stretched  upon  a  hair-cloth  sofer. 
All  night  he  moaned,  the  steamer  groaned, 

And  he  was  hourly  getting  fainter ; 
When  it  came  bump  against  the  pier, 

And  there  was  fastened  by  the  painter. 

Young  Mivins  rose,  and  blew  his  nose, 

Caught  wildly  at  his  small  portmanteau ; 
He  was  unfit  to  lie  or  sit, 

And  found  it  difficult  to  stand,  too. 
He  sought  the  deck,  he  sought  the  shore. 

He  sought  the  lady's  house  like  winking. 
And  asked,  low  tapping  at  the  door, 

"  Is  this  the  house  of  Mr.  Jenkin  1" 

A  short  man  came — ^he  told  his  name — 

Mivins  was  short — he  cut  him  shorter. 
For  in  a  fury,  he  exclaimed, 

"  Are  you  the  man  as  vants  my  darter  ? 
Vot  kim'd  on  you  last  night,  young  squire  ?" 

"  It  was  the  steamer,  rot  and  scuttle  her !" 
"  Mayhap  it  vos,  but  our  Mariar, 

Valked  off  last  night  vith  Bill  the  butler. 


114  THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

"  And  SO  you  've  kini'd  a  post  too  late." 

"  It  was  the  packet,  sir,  miscarried !" 
"  Vy,  does  you  think  a  gal  can  vait 

As  sets  'er  'art  on  being  married  1 
Last  night  she  vowed  she  'd  be  a  bride, 

And  'ave  a  spouse  for  vuss  or  better  : 
So  Bill  struck  in ;  the  knot  vos  tied, 

And  now  I  vishes  you  may  get  her !" 

Young  Mivins  turned  him  from  the  spot, 

Bewilder'd  with  the  dreadful  stroke,  her 
Perfidy  came  like  a  shot — 

He  was  a  thunderstruck  stockbroker. 
"A  curse  on  steam  and  steamers  too ! 

By  their  delays  I  've  been  undone !" 
He  cried,  as,  looking  very  blue, 

He  rode  a  bachelor  to  London. 


THS    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  115 


€\it  Tamuits  dnttnttij. 


BY   THE    HON.    T- 


[Tms  and  the  five  following  poems  were  among  those  forwarded  to 
the  Home  Secretary,  by  the  nnsnocessfol  competitors  for  the  Lanreate- 
ship,  on  its  becoming  vacant  by  the  death  of  Southey.  How  they 
came  in  oar  poi^ession  ia  a  matter  between  Sir  James  Graham  and 
ourselves.  The  result  of  the  contest  could  never  have  been  doubtful, 
least  of  all  the  great  poet  who  then  succeeded  to  the  bays.  His  own 
sonnet  on  the  subject,  is  full  of  the  serene  consciousness  of  superiority, 
which  does  not  even  admit  the  idea  of  rivalry,  &r  less  of  defeat. 

Bays,  which  in  former  days  have  graced  the  brow 

Of  some,  who  lived  and  loved,  and  sung  and  died ; 

Leaves,  that  were  gsUhered  on  the  plea&ant  aide 
Of  old  Parnassus  from  Apollo's  bough  ; 
With  palpitating  hand  I  take  ye  now, 

Since  worthier  minstrel  there  is  none  be^de. 

And  with  a  thrill  of  song  half  deified, 
I  bind  them  prondlv  on  my  locks  of  snow, 
There  shall  they  bide,  till  he  who  follows  next. 

Of  whom  I  cannot  even  guess  the  name. 
Shall  by  Court  favor,  or  some  vain  pretext 

Of  fancied  merit,  desecrate  the  same, — 
And  think,  perchance,  he  wears  them  quite  as  well 
As  the  sole  bard  who  sang  of  Peter  Bell!] 


FTTTK   THE    FIKST.  \ 

"  "What  news,  what  news,  thou  pilgrim  grey,  what  news 

from  southern  land  ? 
How  fare  the  bold  Cx)nsexvatives,  how  is  it  with  Ferrand  ? 


116  THK   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

How  does  the  little  Prince  of  Wales — ^how  looks  our 

lady  Queen ; 
And  tell  me,  is  the  gentle  Brough*  once  more  at  Windsor 

seen?" 

"  I  bring  no  tidings  from  the  court,  nor  from  St.  Stephen's 

hall; 
I  've  heard  the   thundering  tramp  of  horse,  and  the 

trumpet's  battle  call ; 
And  these  old  eyes  have  seen  a  fight,  which  England 

ne'er  hath  seen. 
Since  fell  King  Richard  sobbed  his  soul  through  blood 

on  Bosworth  Green. 

"  He  's  dead,  he  's  dead,  the  Laureate's  dead !"     Twas 

thus  the  cry  began. 
And  straightway  every  garret  roof  gave  up  its  minstrel 

man ; 
From  Grub  Street,  and  from   Houndsditch,  and  from 

Farrinedon  Within, 
The  poets  all  towards  Whitehall  poured  on  with  eldritch 

din. 

Loud  yelled  they  for  Sir  James  the  Graham :  but  sore 

afraid  was  he ; 
A  hardy  knight  were  he  that  might  face  such  a  min- 

strelsie. 


*  For  the  convenience  of  future  eominentators  it  may  be  mentioned,  that  the 
'■(tentle  Bp'oeh"  wns  the  Mnnthly  None  who  attended  her  Majesty  on  Um 
occaaion  of  the  birth  of  the  Princess  HovaL 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  117 

"  Now  by  St.  Giles  of  Nethcrby,  my  patron  saint,  I 

swear, 
I  'd  rather  by  a  thousand  crowns  Lord  Palmerston  were 

here ! — • 

"  What  is  't  ye  seek,  ye  rebel  knaves,  what  make  you 

there  beneath  f 
"  The  bays,  the  bays !  we  want  the  bays !  we  seek  the 

laureate  wreath ! 
We  seek  the  butt  of  generous  wine  that  cheers  the  sons 

of  song: 
Choose  thou  among  us  all,  Sir  Knight — we  may  not 

tarry  long !" 

Loud  laughed  the  good  Sir  James  in  scorn — "  Rare  jest 

it  were,  I  think, 
But  one  poor  butt  of  Xeres,  and  a  thousand  rogues  to 

drink  ! 
An'  if  it  flowed  with  wine  or  beer,  't  is  easy  to  be  seen 
That  dry  within  the  hour  would  be  the  well  of  Hippo- 

crene. 

"Tell  me,  if  on  Parnassus'  heights  there  grow  a  thou- 
sand sheaves: 

Or  has  Apollo's  laurel  bush  yet  borne  ten  hundred 
leaves  ? 

Or  if  so  many  leaves  were  there,  how  long  would  they 
sustain 

The  ravage  and  the  glutton  bite  of  such  a  locust 
train  ? 


118  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  No !  get  ye  back  into  your  dens,  take  counsel  for  the 

night, 
And  choose  me  out  two  champions  to  meet  in  deadly 

fight; 
To-morrow's  dawn  shall  see  the  lists    marked  out  in 

Spitalfields, 
And  he  who  wins  shall  have  the  bays,  and  he  shall  die 

who  yields !" 

Down  went  the  window  with  a  crash, — in  silence  and  in 

fear 
Each  ragged  bard  looked  anxiously  upon  his  neighbor 

near; 
Then  up  and  spake  young  Tennyson — "  Who 's  here  that 

fears  for  death? 
T  were  better  one  of  us  should  die,  than  England  lose 

the  wreath ! 

"  Let's  cast  the  lots  among  us  now,  which  two  shall  fight 

to-morrow ; — 
For  armor  bright  we  '11  club  our  mite,  and  horses  we 

can  borrow. 
T  were  shame  that  bards  of  France  should  sneer,  and 

German  Dichters  too. 
If  none  of  British  song  might  dare  a  deed  of  derring-do  !" 

"  The  lists  of  love  are  mine,"  said  Moore,  "  and  not  the 

lists  of  Mars ;" 
Said  Hunt,  "  I  seek  the  jars  of  wine,  but  shun  the  com 

bat's  jars !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  119 

"I   'm   old,"    quoth  Samuel   Rogers. — "Faith,"    ^ays 

Campbell,  "  so  am  I !" 
"  And  I  'm  in  holy  orders,  sir !"  quoth  Tom  of  Ingoldsby. 

"  Now  out  upon  ye,  craven  loons !"  cried  Moxon,  good 

at  need, — 
"  Bide,  if  ye  will,  secure  at  home,  and  sleep  while  others 

bleed. 
I  second  Alfred's  motion,  boys, — let 's  try  the  chance  of 

lot; 
And  monks  shall  sing,  and  bells  shall  ring,  for  him  that 

goes  to  pot." 

Eight  hundred  minstrels  slunk    away — two    hundred 

stayed  to  draw, — 
Now  heaven  protect  the  daring  wight  that  pulls  the 

longest  straw ! 
'T  is  done !    't  is  done !     And  who  hath  won  1    Keep 

silence,  one  and  all, — 
The  first  is  "William  Wordsworth  hight,  the  second  Ned 

Fitzball !" 

FTTTK   THE   SECOm). 

Oh,  bright   and  gay   hath  dawned   the  day  on  lordly 

Spitalfields, — 
How  flash  the  rays  with  ardent  blaze  from  polished 

helms  and  shields ! 
On   either   side   the  chivalry   of  England   throng  the 

green, 
\nd  in  the  middle  balcony  appears  our  gracious  Queen. 


120  THE    BOOK    OP    BALLADS. 

With  iron  fists,  to  keep  the  lists,  two  valiant  knights 

appear, 
The  Marquis  Hal  of  Waterford,  and  stout  Sir  Aubrey 

Vere. 
"  What  ho,  there,  herald,  blow  the  trump  !     Let  's  see 

who  comes  to  claim 
The  butt  of  golden  Xeres,  and  the  Laureate's  honored 

name  !" 

That  instant  dashed  into  the  lists,  all  armed  from  head 

to  heel, 
On  courser  brown,  with  vizor  down,  a  wan-ior  sheathed 

in  steel ; 
Then  said  our  Queen — "  Was  ever  seen  so  stout  a  knight 

and  tall  ? 
His  name — his  race  ?" — "  An  't  please  your  grace,  it  is 

the  brave  Fitzball. 

"Oft  in   the  Melodrama  line  his  prowess  hath  been 

shown. 
And  well  throughout  the  Surrey  side  his  thirst  for  blood 

is  known. 
But  see,  the  other  champion  comes !" — Then  rung  the 

startled  air 
With  shouts  of  "  Wordsworth,  Wordsworth,  ho  !    the 

bard  of  Rydal  's  there." 

And   lo  !    upon    a    little    steed,   unmeet    for    such   a 

course, 
Appeared  the  honored  veteran ;  but  weak  seemed  man 

and  horse. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  121 

Then  shook  their  ears  the  sapient  peers, — "  That  joust 

will  soon  be  done: 
My  Lord  of  Brougham,  I  '11  back  Fitzball,  and  give  you 

two  to  one !" 

"  Done,"  quoth  the  Brougham, — "  and  done  with  you  !" 

"  Now,  Minstrels,  are  you  ready  V 
Exclaimed   the   Lord  of  Waterford, — "  You  'd  better 

both  sit  steady. 
Blow,  trumpets,  blow  the  note  of  charge !   and  forward 

to  the  fight !" 
"Amen  !"  said  good  Sir  Aubrey  Vere;   "Saint  Schism 

defend  the  right !" 

As  sweeps  the  blast  against  the  mast,  when  blows  the 
furious  squall, 

So  started  at  the  trumpet's  sound,  the  terrible  Fitz- 
ball ; 

His  lance  he  bore  his  breast  before, — Saint  George  pro- 
tect the  just. 

Or  Wordsworth's  hoary  head  must  roll  along  the  shame- 
ful dust ! 

"  Who  threw  that  calthrop  1    Seize  the  knave !"     Alas 

the  deed  is  done ; 
Down  went  the  steed,  and  o'er  his  head  flew  bright 

Apollo's  son. 
"Undo  his  helmet!    cut  the  lace!    pour  water  on  his 

head  1" 
*'  It  ain't  no  use  at  ail,  my  lord  ;  'cos  vy  1  the  covey  's 

dead !" 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

Above  him  stood  the  Rydal  bard — ^his  face  was  full  of 

wo — 
"  Now  there  thou  liest,  stiff  and  stark,  who  never  feared 

a  foe : 
A  braver  knight,  or  more  renowned  in  tourney  and  in 

hall, 
Ne'er  brought  the   upper  gallery  down,  than  terrible 

Fitzball !" 

They  led  our  Wordsworth  to  the  Queen — she  crowned 
him  with  the  bays. 

And  wished  him  many  happy  years,  and  many  quarter- 
days, — 

And  if  you  'd  have  the  story  told  by  abler  lips  than 
mine, 

You  've  but  to  call  at  Rydal  Moimt,  and  taste  the 
Laureate's  wine ! 


THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  133 


€^  Enpl  %mj\Ml 


BY    THE   HON.    G- 


The  Queen,  she  kept  high  festival  in  Windsor's  lordly 
hall, 

And  round  her  sat  the  gartered  knights,  and  ermined 
nobles  all ; 

There  drank  the  valiant  Wellington,  there  fed  the  wary- 
Peel, 

And  at  the  bottom  of  the  board,  Prince  Albert  carved 
the  veal. 

"  What,  pantler,  ho !  remove  the  cloth  !     Ho  !  cellarer, 

the  wine, 
And  bid  the  royal  nurse  bring  in  the  hope  of  Brunswick's 

line!" 
Then   rose,  with  one  tumultuous  shout,  the  band    of 

British  peers, 
"  God  bless  her  sacred  Majesty !     Let  's  see  the  little 

dears !" 


liS4  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Now  by  Saint  George,  our  patron  saint,  't  was  a  touch- 
ing sight  to  see 

That  iron  warrior  gently  place  the  Princess  on  his 
knee; 

To  hear  him  hush  her  infant  fears,  and  teach  her  how  to 
gape 

With  rosy  mouth  expectant  for  the  raisin  and  the 
grape ! 

They  passed  the  wine,  the  sparkling  wine — they  filled 

the  goblets  up, 
Even  Brougham,  the  cynic  anchorite,  smiled  blandly  on 

the  cup ; 
And  Lyndhurst,  with  a  noble  thirst,  that  nothing  could 

appease, 
Proposed  the  immortal  memory  of  King  William  on  his 

knees. 

"  What  want  we  here,  my  gracious  liege,"  cried  good 
Lord  Aberdeen, 

"  Save  gladsome  song  and  minstrelsy  to  flow  our  cups 
between  ? 

I  ask  not  now  for  Goulburn's  voice  or  Knatchbull's 
warbling  lay. 

But  where  's  the  Poet  Laureate  to  grace  our  board  to- 
day ?" 

Loud  laughed  the  Knight  of  Netherby,  and  scornfully  he 

cried, 
"  Or  art  thou  mad  with  wine,  Lord  Earl,  or  art  thyself 

beside  1 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  125 

Eight  hundred  Bedlam  bards  have  claimed  the  Laureate's 

vacant  crown, 
And  now  like  frantic  Bacchanals  run  wild  through  Loa- 

don  town  !" 

"  Now  glory  to  our  gracious  Queen !"  a  voice  was  heard 
to  cry, 

And  dark  Macaulay  stood  before  them  all  with  frenzied 
eye; 

"  Now  glory  to  our  gracious  Queen,  and  all  her  glorious 
race, 

A  boon,  a  boon,  my  sovran  liege !  Give  me  the  Lau- 
reate's place ! 

"  'T  was  I  that  sang  the  might  of  Rome,  the  glories  of 

Navarre ; 
And  who  could  swell  the  fame  so  well  of  Britain's  Isles 

afar? 
The  liero  of  a  hundred  fights — "     Then  Wellington  up 

sprung, 
"  Ho,  silence  in  the  ranks,  I  say !     Sit  down,  and  hold 

your  tongue. 

"  By  heaven  thou  shalt  not  twist  my  name  into  a  jingling 

lay. 
Or  mimic  in  thy  puny  song  the  thunders  of  Assaye ! 
T  is  hard  that  for  thy  lust  of  place  in  peace  we  cannot 

dine. 
Nurse,  take  her  Royal  Highness  here !   Sir  Robet,  pass 

the  wine !" 


1^ 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


"  No  laureate  need  we  at  our  board !"  then  spoke  the 

Lord  of  Vaux ; 
"  Here  's  many  a  voice  to  charm  the  ear  with  minstrel 

song,  I  know. 
Even  I,  myself — "    Then  rose  the  cry — "  A  song,  a  song 

from  Brougham !" 
He  sang, — and  straightway  found  himself  alone  within 

the  room. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  tSff 


€i)!  fotixl  nf  d^rra'3  tmml 


BY   T M — KE,   ESQ. 

Oh,  weep  for  the  hours  when  the  little  blind  boy 

Wove  round  me  the  spells  of  his  Paphian  bower ; 
When  I  dipp'd  my  light  wings  in  the  nectar  of  joy, 

And  soar'd  in  the  sunshine,  the  moth  of  the  hour ! 
From  beauty  to  beauty,  I  pass'd  like  the  wind  ; 

Now  fondled  the  lily,  now  toy'd  with  the  rose ; 
And  the  fair,  that  at  mom  had  enchanted  my  mind, 

Was  forsook  for  another  ere  evening's  close. 

I  sighed  not  for  honor,  I  cared  not  for  fame. 

While  Pleasure  sat  by  me,  and  Love  was  my  guest ; 
They  twined  a  fresh  wreath  for  each  day  as  it  came, 

And  the  bosom  of  beauty  still  pillowed  my  rest ; 
And  the  harp  of  my  country — neglected  it  slept — 

In  hall  or  by  greenwood  unheard  were  its  songs  ; 
From  Love's  Sybarite  dreams  I  aroused  me,  and  swept 

Its  chord  to  the  tale  of  her  glories  and  wrongs. 


1128  THE^^OOK    OF    BALLADS. 

But  weep  for  the  hour ! — Life's  summer  is  past. 

And  the  snow  of  its  winter  lies  cold  on  my  brow; 
And  my  soul,  as  it  shrinks  from  each  stroke  of  the  blast, 

Cannot  turn  to  a  fire  that  glows  inwardly  now. 
No,  its  ashes  are  dead — ^and,  alas  !  Love  or  Song 

No  charm  to  Life's  lengthening  shadows  can  lend, 
Like  a  cup  of  old  wine,  rich,  mellow,  and  strong, 

And  a  seat  by  the  fire  tete-a-tete  with  a  friend. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BAL^j^S.  129 


€^  Xmnsit. 


Who  would  not  be 

The  Laureate  bold 
With  his  butt  of  sherry 
To  keep  him  merry, 
And  nothing  to  do  but  to  pocket  his  gold 

'Tis  I  would  be  the  Laureate'  bold ! 

When  the  days  are  hot,  and  the  sun  is  strong, 

I  'd  lounge  in  the  gateway  all  the  day  long, 

With  her  Majesty's  footmen  in  crimson  and  gold. 

I  'd  care  not  a  pin  for  the  waiting-lord  ; 

But  I  'd  lie  on  my  back  on  the  smooth  green  sward. 

With  a  straw  in  my  mouth,  and  an  open  vest. 

And  the  cool  wind  blowing  upon  my  breast, 

And  1  'd  vacantly  stare  at  the  clear  blue  sky, 

And  watch  the  clouds  as  listless  as  I, 

Lazily,  lazily ! 
6* 


130      •  THB^iOOK    OF   BALLADS, 

And  I  'd  pick  the  moss  and  daisies  white, 

And  chew  their  stalks  with  a  nibbling  bite ; 

And  I  'd  let  my  fancies  roam  abroad 

In  search  of  a  hint  for  a  birth-day  ode, 
Crazily,  crazily ! 
Oh,  that  would  be  the  life  for  me, 
With  plenty  io  get  and  nothing  to  do, 
But  to  deck  a  pet  poodle  with  ribbons  of  blue. 
And  whistle  all  day  t&  the  Queen's  cockatoo, 

Trance-somely,  trance-soniely, 
Then  the  chambermaids,  that  ekan  the  rooms, 
Would  come  to  the  windows  and!  rest  on  their  broom^ 
With  their  saucy  caps,  and  their  cri»p«d  hair, 
And  they  'd  toss  their  heads  in  the  fragyant  air, 
And  say  to  each  other — "  Just  look  do\yn  tlteve^ 
At  the  nice  young  man,  so  tidy  and  small, 
Who  is  paid  for  writing  on  nothing  at  all, 
Handsomely,  handsomely  T' 

They  would  pelt  me  with  matches  and  sweet  pastilles, 
And  crumpled  up  balls  of  the  royal  bills, 
Giggling  and  laughing,  and  screaming  with  fun, 
As  they  'd  see  me  start,  with  a  leap  and  a  run. 
From  the  broad  of  my  back  to  the  point  of  my  toes, 
When  a  pellet  of  paper  hit  my  nose, 

Teazingly,  sneezingly. 
Then  I  'd  fling  them  bunches  of  garden  flowers, 
And  hyacinths  plucked  from  the  Castle  bowers ; 
And  I  'd  challenge  them  all  to  come  down  to  me, 
And  1  'd  kiss  them  all  till  they  kissed  me, 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 


l-HE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  IJJl 

Oh,  would  B.ot  that  be  a  merry  life, 
Apart  from  care,  and  apart  from  strife, 
With  the  Laureate's  wine,  and  the  Laureate's  pay, 
And  no  deductions  at  quarter-day  ? 
Oh,  that  would  be  the  post  for  me ! 
With  plenty  to  get  and  nothing  to  do 
But  to  deck  a  pet  poodle  with  ribbons  of  blue, 
And  whistle  a  tune  to  the  Queen's  cockatoo, 
And  scribble  of  verses  remarkably  few, 
And  at  evening  empty  a  bottle  or  two, 
Quaffingly,  quaffingly ! 

T  is  I  would  be 

The  Laureate  bold, 
With  my  butt  of  sherry 
To  keep  me  merry. 
And  nothing  to  do  but  to  pocket  my  gold ! 


132  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


a  awgiit  BBMtufa. 


Fill  me  once  more  the  foaming  pewter  up ! 

Another  board  of  oysters,  ladye  mine ! 
To-night  Lucullus  with  himself  shall  sup. 

These  mute  inglorious  Miltons  are  divine ; 

And  as  I  here  in  slippered  ease  recline, 
Quaffing  of  Perkins'  Entire  my  fill, 
I  sigh  not  for  the  lymph  of  Aganippe's  rill. 

A  nobler  inspiration  fires  my  brain, 

Caught  from  Old  England's  fine  time-hallowed  druik ; 

I  snatch  the  pot  again  and  yet  again, 

And  as  the  foaming  fluids  shrink  and  shrink, 
Fill  me  once  more,  I  say,  up  to  the  brink  ! 

This  makes  strong  hearts — strong  heads  attest  its  charm — 

This  nerves  the  might  that  sleeps  in  JBritain's  brawnv 
arm  ! 

But  these  remarks  are  neither  here  nor  there. 

Where  was  1 1     Oh,  I  see — old  Southey  's  dead ! 
They  '11  want  some  bard  to  fill  the  vacant  cliair, 

And  drain  the  annual  butt — and  oh,  what  head 

More  fit  with  laurel  to  be  garlandec" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS,  133 

Than  this,  which,  curled  in  many  a  fragrant  coil. 
Breathes  of  Castalia's  streams,  and  best  Macassar  oil  ? 

I  know  a  grace  is  seated  on  my  brow, 

Like  young  Apollo's  with  his  golden  beams ; 

There  should  Apollo's  bays  be  budding  now  : 
And  in  my  flashing  eyes  the  radiance  beams 
That  marks  the  poet  in  his  waking  dreams, 

When  as  his  fancies  cluster  thick  and  thicker, 

He  feels  the  trance  divine  of  poesy  and  liquor. 

They  throng  around  me  now,  those  things  of  air. 
That  from  my  fancy  took  their  being's  stamp  : 

There  Pelham  sits  and  twirls  his  glossy  hair, 
There  Clifford  leads  his  pals  upon  the  tramp ; 
Their  pale  Zanoni,  bending  o'er  his  lamp, 

Roams  through  the  starry  wilderness  of  thought. 

Where  all  is  everything,  and  everything  is  nought. 

Yes,  I  am  he,  who  sung  how  Aram  won 

The  gentle  ear  of  pensive  Madeline  ! 
How  love  and  murder  hand  in  hand  may  run, 

Cemented  by  philosophy  serene. 

And  kisses  bless  the  spot  where  gore  has  been  ! 
Who  breathed  the  melting  sentiment  of  crime. 
And  for  the  assassin  waked  a  sympathy  sublime ! 

Yes,  I  am  he,  who  on  the  novel  shed 
Obscure  philosophy's  enchanting  light ! 

Until  the  public,  wildered  as  they  read. 

Believed  they  saw  that  which  was  not  in  sight— 
Of  course  't  was  not  for  nie  to  set  them  right-, 


134  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

For  in  my  nether  heart  convinced  I  am, 
Philosophy  's  as  good  as  any  other  bam. 

Novels  three-volumed  I  shall  write  no  more — 
Somehow  or  other  now  they  will  not  sell ; 

And  to  invent  new  passions  is  a  bore — 
I  find  the  Magazines  pay  quite  &s  well. 
Translating  's  simple,  too,  as  I  can  tell. 

Who  've  hawked  at  Schiller  on  his  lyric  throne, 

And  given  the  astonished  bard  a  meaning  all  my  own. 

Moore,  Campbell,  Wordsworth,  their   best    days    are 
grassed ; 
Battered  and  broken  are  their  early  lyres. 
Rogers,  a  pleasant  memory  of  the  past. 

Warmed  his  young  hands  at  Smithfield's  martyr  fires. 
And,  worth  a  plum,  nor  bays,  nor  butt  desires. 
But  these  are  things  would  suit  me  to  the  letter, 
For  though  this  Stout  is  good,  old  Sherry  's  greatly 
better. 

A  fico  for  your  small  poetic  ravers, 

Your  Hunts,  your  Tennysons,  your  Milnes,  and  these ! 

Shall  they  compete  with  him  who  wrote  "  Maltravers," 
Prologue  to  "Alice  or  the  Mysteries?" 
No  !     Even  now,  my  glance  prophetic  sees 

My  own  high  brow  girt  with  the  bays  about. 

What  ho,  within  there,  ho !  another  pint  of  Stout  ! 


THE    BOOK   OF    BALLADS.  135 


3ltnntgnmnT|. 


A   POEM. 


Like  one  who,  waking  from  a  troublous  dream, 

Pursues  with  force  his  meditative  theme ; 

Calm  as  the  ocean  in  its  halcyon  still, 

Calm  as  the  sunlight  sleeping  on  the  hill : 

Calm  as  at  Ephesus  great  Paul  was  seen 

To  rend  his  robes  in  agonies  serene ; 

Calm  as  the  love  that  radiant  Luther  bore 

To  all  that  lived  behind  him,  and  before ; 

Calm  as  meek  Calvin,  when,  with  holy  smile, 

He  sang  the  mass  around  Servetus'  pile, — 

So  once  again  I  snatch  this  harp  of  mine, 

To  breathe  rich  incense  from  a  mystic  shrine. 

Not  now  to  whisper  to  the  ambient  air 

The  sound  of  Satan's  Universal  Prayer ; 

Not  now  to  sing  in  sweet  domestic  strife 

That  woman  reigns  the  Angel  of  our  life; 

But  to  proclaim  the  wish,  with  pious  art, 

Which  thrills  through  Britain's  universal  heart, — 

That  on  this  brow,  with  native  honors  graced, 

The  Laureate's  chaplet  should  at  length  be  placed ! 


136  THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

Fear  not,  ye  maids,  who  love  to  hear  me  speak ; 
Let  no  desponding  tears  bedim  your  cheek  ! 
No  gust  of  envy,  no  malicious  scorn, 
Hath  this  poor  heart  of  mine  with  frenzy  torn. 
There  are  who  move  so  far  above  the  great, 
Their  very  look  disarms  the  glance  of  hate ; 
Their  thoughts,  more  rich  than  emerald  or  gold, 
Enwrap  them  like  the  prophet's  mantle's  fold. 
Fear  not  for  me,  nor  think  that  this  our  age. 
Blind  though  it  be,  hath  yet  no  Archimage. 
I,  who  have  bathed  in  bright  Castalia's  tide. 
By  classic  Isis  and  more  classic  Clyde ; 
I,  who  have  handled  in  my  lofty  strain, 
All  things  divine,  and  many  things  profane  ; 
I,  who  have  trod  where  seraphs  fear  to  tread ; 
I,  who  on  mountain — honey  dew  have  fed ; 
I,  who  undaunted  broke  the  mystic  seal, 
And  left  no  page  for  prophets  to  reveal ; 
I,  who  in  shade  portentous  Dante  threw ; 
I,  who  have  done  what  Milton  dared  not  do, — 
I  fear  no  rival  for  the  vacant  throne ; 
No  mortal  thunder  shall  eclipse  my  own  1- 

Let  dark  Macaulay  chaunt  his  Roman  lays, 
Let  Monckton  Milnes  go  mounder  for  the  bays, 
Let  Simmons  call  on  great  Napoleon's  shade. 
Let  Lytton  Bulwer  seek  his  Aram's  aid, 
Let  Wordsworth  ask  for  help  from  Peter  Bell, 
Let  Campbell  carol  Copenhagen's  knell, 
Let  Delta  warble  through  his  Delphic  groves. 
Let  Elliot  shout  for  pork  and  penny  loaves, — 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  137 

I  cai  e  not,  I !  rasolved  to  stand  or  fall ; 
One  down,  another  on,  I  '11  smash  them  all ! 

Back,  ye  profane !  this  hand  alone  hath  power 
To  pluck  the  laurel  from  its  sacred  bower ; 
This  brow  alone  is  privileged  to  weax 
The  ancient  wreath  o'er  hyacinthine  hair ; 
These  lips  alone  may  qualF  the  sparkling  wine. 
And  make  its  mortal  juice  once  more  divine. 
Back,  ye  profane !     And  thou,  fair  queen,  rejoice : 
A  nation's  praise  shall  consecrate  thy  choice. 
Thus,  then,  I  kneel  where  Spencer  knelt  before. 
On  the  same  spot  perchance,  of  Windsor's  floor  ; 
And  take,  while  awe-struck  millions  round  me  stand, 
The  hallowed  wreath  from  sjreat  Victoria's  hand. 


138  THE  BOOK   OF  BALLADS. 


€^  Dfntji  nf  Ijim. 


[Why  has  Satan's  own  Laureate  never  given  to  the  world  his  mar- 
vellous threnody  on  "The  Death  of  Space?"  Who  knows  where 
the  bays  might  have  fallen,  had  he  forwarded  that  mystic  manuscript 
to  the  Home  Office  ?  If  unwonted  modesty  withholds  it  from  the 
public  eye,  the  public  will  pardon  the  boldness  that  tears  from  blush- 
ing obscurity  the  following  fragments  of  this  unique  poem.] 

Eternity  shall  raise  her  funeral  pile 

In  the  vast  dungeon  of  the  extinguish'd  sky, 

And,  clothed  in  dim  barbaric  splendor,  smile, 
And  murmur  shouts  of  elegiac  joy. 

While  those  that  dwell  beyond  the  realms  of  space, 

And  those  that  people  all  that  dreary  void, 

When  old  Time's  endless  heir  hath  run  his  race, 

Shall  live  for  aye,  enjoying  and  eujoy'd. 

And  'mid  the  agony  of  unsullied  bliss, 

Her  Demogorgon's  doom  shall  Sin  bewail, 

The  undying  serpent  at  the  spheres  shall  hiss, 
And  lash  the  empyrean  with  his  tail. 


TfiTE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  1^ 

And  Hell,  inflated  with  supernal  wrath. 
Shall  open  wide  her  thunder-bolted  jaws, 

And  shout  into  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death, 
That  he  must  pay  his  debt  to  Nature's  laws. 

And  when  the  King  of  Terrors  breathes  his  last, 

Infinity  shall  creep  into  her  shell. 
Cause  and  effect  shall  from  their  thrones  be  cast, 

And  end  their  strife  with  suicidal  yell. 

While  from  their  ashes,  burnt  with  pomp  of  Kings 
'Mid  incense  floating  to  the  evanished  skies, 

Nonentity,  on  circumambient  wings, 
An  everlasting  Phoenix  shall  arise. 


140  THE   BOOK   OF    BALLADS. 


A   LAY    OF    SHERWOOD. 
BTTTE   THE    FIRST. 

The  deer  may  leap  within  the  glade ; 

The  fawns  may  follow  free — 
For  Robin  is  dead,  and  his  bones  are  laid 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

And  broken  are  his  merry,  merry  men, 

That  goodlie  companie ; 
There  's  some  have  ta'en  thv;  n,  rthcrn  road 

With  Jem  of  Netherbee. 

The  best  and  bravest  of  the  band 

With  Derby  Ned  are  gone ; 
But  Earlie  Gray  and  Charlie  Wood, 

They  staid  with  Little  John. 

Now  Little  John  was  an  outlaw  proud, 

A  prouder  ye  never  saw  ; 
Through  Nottingham  and  Leicester  shires 

He  thought  his  word  was  law, 
And  he  strutted  through  the  greenwood  wide 

Like  a  pestilent  jack-daw. 


THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  141 

He  swore  that  none,  but  with  leave  of  him, 

Should  set  foot  on  the  turf  so  free  • 
And  he  thought  to  spread  his  cutter's  rule. 

All  over  the  south  countrie. 
"  There  's  never  a  knave  in  the  land,"  he  said, 

"  But  shall  pay  his  toll  to  me !" 

And  Charlie  Wood  was  a  taxman  good 

As  ever  stepped  the  ground, 
He  levied  mail,  like  a  sturdy  thief. 

From  all  the  yeomen  round. 
"  Nay,  stand !"  quoth  he,  "  thou  shalt  pay  to  me, 

Seven  pence  from  every  pound !" 

Now  word  has  come  to  Little  John, 

As  he  lay  upon  the  grass, 
That  a  friar  red  was  in  merry  Sherwood 

"Without  his  leave  to  pass. 

"  Come  hither,  come  hither,  my  little  foot-page  1 

Ben  Hawes,  come  tell  to  me. 
What  manner  of  man  is  this  burly  frere 

Who  walks  the  wood  so  free  !" 

"  My  master  good !"  the  little  page  said, 

"His  name  I  wot  not  well. 
But  he  wears  on  his  head  a  hat  so  red, 

With  a  monstrous  scallop-shell. 

"  He  says  he  is  Prior  of  Copmanshuxst, 

And  Bishop  of  London  town, 
And  he  comes  with  a  rope  from  our  fiither,  the  Pope 

To  put  the  outlaws  down. 


142  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  I  saw  him  ride  but  yester-tide 
With  his  jolly  chaplains  three ; 

And  he  swears  that  he  has  an  open  pass 
From  Jem  of  Netherbee !" 


Little  John  has  ta'en  an  arrow  so  broad, 

And  broke  it  o'er  his  knee  ; 
"  Now  I  may  never  strike  doe  again, 

But  this  wrong  avenged  shall  be ! 

"  And  has  he  dared,  this  greasy  frere, 

To  trespass  in  my  bound, 
Nor  asked  for  leave  from  Little  John 

To  range  with  hawk  and  hound  1 

"  And  has  he  dared  to  take  a  pass 

From  Jem  of  Netherbee, 
Forgetting  that  the  Sherwood  shawp 

Pertain  of  right  to  me  ? 

**  O  were  he  but  a  simple  man 

And  not  a  slip-shod  frere ! 
I  'd  hang  him  up  by  his  own  waist-rope 

Above  yon  tangled  brere. 

"  O  did  he  come  alone  from  Jem 
And  not  from  our  father  the  Pope, 

I  'd  bring  him  in  to  Copmanshurst, 
With  the  noose  of  a  hempen  rope ! 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  143 

"  But  since  he  has  come  from  our  father  the  Pope, 

And  sailed  across  the  sea, 
And  since  he  has  power  to  bind  and  loose, 

His  life  is  safe  for  me ; 
But  a  heavy  penance  he  shall  do 
•    Beneath  the  greenwood  tree !" 

"  O  tarry  yet,"  quoth  Charlie  Wood, 

"  0  tarry,  master  mine ! 
It 's  ill  to  shear  a  yearling  hog, 

Or  twist  the  wool  of  swine  ! 

"  It 's  ill  to  make  a  bonny  silk  purse 

From  the  ear  of  a  bristly  boar ; 
It 's  ill  to  provoke  a  shaveling's  curse, 

When  the  way  lies  him  before. 

"  I  've  walked  the  forest  for  twenty  years, 

In  weather  wet  and  dry. 
And  never  stopped  a  good  fellawe 

Who  had  no  coin  to  buy. 

"  What  boots  it  to  search  a  beggarman's  bags 

When  no  silver  groat  he  has  ? 
So,  master  mine,  I  rede  you  well. 

E'en  let  the  Friar  pass  !" 

"  Now  cease  thy  prate,"  quoth  Little  John, 

"  Thou  japest  but  in  vain ; 
An  he  have  not  a  groat  within  his  pouch 

We  may  find  a  silver  chain. 


144  THE    BOOK    OP    BALLADS. 

"  But  were  he  as  bare  as  a  neW-flajed  buck. 

As  truly  he  may  be, 
He  shall  not  tread  the  Sherwood  shaws 

Without  the  leave  of  me  !" 

*'  Little  John  has  taken  his  arrows  and  bow, 
His  sword  and  buckler  strong, 

And  lifted  up  his  quarter-staff, 
Was  full  three  cloth  yards  long 

And  he  has  left  his  merry  men 

At  the  trysting-tree  behind. 
And  gone  into  the  gay  greenwood, 

This  burly  frere  to  find. 

O'er  holt  and  hill,  thro'  brake  and  brere 

He  took  his  way  alone  — 
Now,  Lordlings,  list  and  you  shall  hear 

This  geste  of  Little  John. 

FYTTE   THE    SECOND. 

T  is  merry,  't  is  merry  in  gay  greenwood, 
When  the  little  birds  are  singing, 

When  the  buck  is  belling  in  the  fern 

And  the  hare  from  the  thicket  springing! 

T  is  merry  to  hear  the  waters  clear 
As  they  splash  in  the  pebbly  fall ; 

And  the  ouzel  whistling  to  his  mate 
As  he  lights  on  the  stones  so  smalL 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS,  14l> 

But  small  pleasaunce  took  little  Jolm 

In  all  he  heard  and  saw ; 
Till  ii!}  reached  the  cave  of  a  hermit  old 

Who  wonned  within  the  shaw. 


"  Ora  pro  nobis  /"  quoth  Little  John — 

His  Latin  was  somewhat  rude — 
"  Now,  holy  Father,  hast  thou  seen 

A  frere  within  the  wood  1 

"  By  his  scarlet  hose,  and  his  ruddy  nose, 

I  guess  you  may  know  him  well ; 
And  he  wears  on  his  head  a  hat  so  red, 

And  monstrous  scallop  shell." 

"  I  have  served  Saint  Pancras,"  the  hermit  said> 

"  In  this  cell  for  thirty  year. 
Yet  never  saw  I,  in  the  forest  bounds, 

The  face  of  such  a  frere  ! 

"  And  if  yQ  find  him,  master  mine, 

E'en  take  an  old  man's  advice. 
And  raddle  him  Avell,  till  he  roar  again. 

Lest  ye  fail  to  meat  him  twice !'" 

•Trust  me  for  that  l"  (|ucth  Little  John — 

"Trust  me  foi  that !"  quoth  he  with  a  laueh, 

"There  never  was  man  of  woman  born, 

That  ask'd  twice  for  the  taste  of  my  quarter-staff!" 
■7 


116  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Then  Little  John,  he  strutted  on, 
'Till  he  came  to  an  open  bound, 

And  he  was  aware  of  a  Red  Friar 
Was  sitting  upon  the  ground. 

His  shoulders  they  were  broad  and  stror  g, 

And  large  was  he  of  limb : 
Few  yeomen  in  the  north  countrie 

Would  care  to  mell  with  him. 

He  heard  the  rustling  of  the  boughs, 

As  Little  John  drew  near ; 
But.  never  a  single  word  he  tipoke, 

Of  welcome  or  of  cheer. 

I  like  not  his  looks !  thought  Little  John, 
Nor  his  staff  of  the  oaken  tree. 

Now  may  our  Lady  be  my  help, 
Else  beaten  I  well  may  be  ! 

"  What  dost  thou  here,  thou  strong  Friar, 

In  Sherwood's  merry  round, 
Without  the  leave  of  Little  John, 

To  range  with  hawk  and  hound  ?" 

"  Small  thought  have  I,"  quoth  the  Red  Fiiar, 

"  Of  any  leave,  I  trow. 
That  Little  John  is  an  outlawed  thief. 

And  so,  I  ween,  art  thou ! 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  147 

"Know,  1  am  Prior  of  Copmanshurst, 

And  Bishop  of  London  town, 
And  I  bring  a  rope  from  our  father  the  Pope, 

To  put  the  outlaws  down." 

Then  out  spoke  Little  John  in  wrath, 

"I  tell  thee,  burly  frere. 
The  Pope  may  do  as  he  likes  at  home, 

But  he  sends  no  Bishops  here ! 

"  Up,  and  away,  Red  Friar !"  he  said, 

"  Up,  and  away,  right  speedilie ; 
An  it  were  not  for  that  cowl  of  thine. 

Avenged  on  thy  body  I  would  be !" 

•'  Nay,  heed  not  that,"  said  the  Red  Friar, 
"  And  let  my  cowl  no  hindrance  be ; 

I  warrant  that  I  can  give  as  good 
As  ever  I  think  to  take  from  thee !" 

Little  John  he  raised  his  quarter-staff. 

And  so  did  the  burly  priest, 
And  they  fought  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

A  stricken  hour  at  least. 

But  Little  John  was  weak  of  fence, 

And  his  strength  began  to  fail, 
Whilst  the  Friar's  blows  came thundeiing  down, 

Like  the  strokes  of  a  threshing  flail. 


148  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  Now,  hold  thy  hand,"  thou  stalwart  Friar, 

"  Now  rest  beneath  the  thorn. 
Until  I  gather  breath  enow, 

For  a  blast  at  my  bugle  horn  !" 

"  I  '11  hold  my  hand,"  the  Friar  said, 

"  Since  that  is  your  propine, 
But,  an  you  sound  your  bugle  horn, 

I  '11  even  blow  on  mine  !" 

Little  John  he  wound  a  blast  so  shrill 

That  it  rung  o'er  rock  and  linn. 
And  Charlie  Wood  and  his  merry  men  all 

Came  lightly  bounding  in. 

The  Friar  he  wound  a  blast  so  strong 
That  it  shook  both  bush  and  tree, 

And  to  his  side  came  Witless  Will 
And  Jem  of  Netherbee ; 

With  all  the  worst  of  Robin's  band, 
And  many  a  Rapparee  ! 

Liltle  John  he  wist  not  what  to  do, 

When  he  saw  the  others  come ; 
So  he  twisted  his  quarter-staff  between 

His  fingers  and  his  thumb. 

"There  's  some  mistake,  good  Friar!"  he  said, 
"There  's  some  mistake  'twixt  thee  and  me; 

1  know  thou  art  Prior  of  Copmanshurst, 
But  not  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 


THE    BOOK    OF    UALLALS. 

"  And  if  you  will  take  some  other  name, 
You  shall  have  ample  leave  to  bide ; 

With  pasture  also  for  your  Bulls, 
And  power  tc  range  the  forest  wide." 

"Thflre  'b  no  mistake'''  the  Friar  said, 
"  I  '11  call  myself  jist  what  1  olease. 

My  ioctrino  id  that  chalk  is  chalk, 

And  cheese  is  nothing  else  than  cneese.'' 

"So  be  it  then  ! '  quoth  Little  Jomi; 

"But  surely  you  will  not  object, 
If  I  and  all  my  merry  men 

Should  treat  you  with  reserved  respect '{ 

'  We  can't  call  you  Prior  of  Copmanshurst, 

Nor  Bishop  of  London  town. 
Nor  on  the  grass,  as  you  chance  to  pass. 

Can  we  very  well  kneel  down. 

•'  But  you  '11  send  the  Pope  my  compliments, 

And  say,  as  a  further  hint. 
That,  within  the  Sherwood  bounds,  you  saw 
Little  John,  who  is  the  son-in-law 

Of  his  friend,  old  Mat-o'-the-Mint !" 

So  ends  this  geste  of  Little  John — 

God  save  our  noble  Queen ! 
But,  Lordlings,  say — is  Sherwood  now 

What  Sherwood  once  hath  been  ? 


140 


150  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


f'jj?  l^\\mt  m  iir  jCannrHnt  linglt 


A   LEGEND    OF    GLASeOVT. 


BY   MRS.    K— 


There  's  a  pleasant  place  of  rest,  near  a  City  of  the 
West, 
Where  its  bravest  and  its  best  find  their  grave. 
Below  the  willows  weep,  aiid  their  hoary  branches  steep 
In  the  waters  still  and  deep, 

Not  a  wave ! 

And  the  old  Cathedral  Wall,  so  scathed,  and  gray,  and 
tall. 
Like  a  priest  surveying  all,  stands  beyond. 
And  the  ringing  of  its  bell,  when  the  ringers  ring  it  well, 
Makes  a  kind  of  tidal  swell 

On  the  pond ! 

And  there  it  was  I  lay,  on  a  beauteous  summer's  day, 

With  the  odor  of  the  hay  floating  by ; 
And  I  heard  the  blackbirds  sing,  and  the  bells  demurely 
ring. 
Chime  by  chime,  ting  by  ting, 

Droppiiigly. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  151 

Then   my  thoughts  went   wandering  back   on  a  very- 
beaten  track 
To  the  confine  deep  and  black  of  the  tomb, 
And  I  wondered  who  he  was,  that  is  laid  beneath  the 
grass, 
Where  the  dandelion  has 

Such  a  bloom. 


Then  I  straightway  did  espy,  with  my  slantly  sloping 
eye, 

A  carved  stone  hard  by,  somewhat  worn  ; 
And  I  read  in  letters  cold — JJSere.lgca.Slauncelot.sc.fioKrc, 

®ff.Se.race.oS.3SoQile.oUi, 


SJJJ^e.toals.ane.baigaunt.fenBrttc.maist.tcrrible.in.fjclitc.    .    . 

Here  the  letters  failed  outright,  but  I  knew 
That  a  stout  crusading  lord,  who  had  crossed  the  Jordan's 
ford. 
Lay  there  beneath  the  svard, 

Wet  with  dew. 


Time  and  tide  they  passed  away,  on  that  pleasant  sum- 
mer's day, 
And  around  me  as  I  lay,  all  grew  old : 
Sank  the  chimneys  from  the  town,  and  the  cloiidn  (jS 
vapor  brown 
No  io^gci-.  like  a  crown. 

O'er  it  rolled. 


15'3  THE    BOOK    OW    D.VLLAnS. 

Sank  the  great  Saint  Roliux  stalk,  like  a  pile  of  dingy 
chalk 
Disappeared  the  cypress  walk,  and  the  flowers. 
And  a  donjon  keep  arose,  that  might  baffle  any  foes, 
With  its  meu-at-arms  in  rows. 

On  its  towers. 

And  the  flag  that  flaunted  there,  showed  the  grim  and 
grizzly  bear, 
Which  the  Bogles  always  wear  for  their  crest. 
And  I  heard  the  warder  call,  as  he  stood  upon  the  wall, 
"  Wake  ye  up !  my  comrades  all. 

From  your  rest ! 

"  For  by  the  blessed  rood,  there 's  a  glimpse  of  armor  good 
In  the  deep  Cowcaddens  wood,  o'er  the  stream ; 

And  I  hear  the  stifled  hum,  of  a  multitude  that  come. 
Though  they  have  not  beat  the  drum 

It  would  seem ! 

"  Gro  tell  it  to  my  Lord,  lest  he  wish  to  man  the  ford 

With  partizan  and  sword,  just  beneath ; 
Ho,  Gilkison  and  Nares !     Ho,  Provan  of  Cowlairs ! 

We  '11  back  the  bonny  bears 

To  the  death !" 

To  the  tower  above  the  moat,  like  one  who  heedeth  not, 
Came  the  bold  Sir  Launcelot,  half  undressed ; 

On  the  outer  rim  he  stood,  and  peered  into  the  wood, 
With  his  arms  across  liim  glued 

On  his  breast. 


THE    BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  153 

And  he  muttered  "  Foe  accurst !  has  thou  dared  to  seek 
me  first? 
George  of  Gorbals,  do  thy  worst — for  J  swear, 
O'er  thy  gory  corpse  to  ride,  ere  thy  sister  and  my 
bride. 
From  my  undesevered  side, 

Thou  shalt  tear ! 

"Ho!  herald  mine,  Brownlee!   ride  forth,  I  pray  and 
see, 
Who,  what,  and  whence  is  he,  foe  or  friend ! 
Sir  Roderick  Dalgleish,  and  my  foster-brother  Neish 
With  his  bloodhounds  in  the  leash. 

Shall  attend." 

Forth  went  the  herald  stout,  o'er  the  drawbridge  and 
without. 
Then  a  wild  and  savage  shout  rose  amain, 
Six  arrows  sped  their  force,  and,  a  pale  and  bleeding 
corse. 
He  sank  from  off  his  horse 

On  the  plain ! 

Back  drew  the  bold   Dalgleish,  back  started  stalwart 
Neish, 
With  his  bloodhounds  in  the  leash,  from  Brownlee. 
"  Now  shame  be  to  the  sword  that  made  thee  knight 
and  lord, 
Thou  caitiff  thrice  abhorred. 

Shame  on  thee! 
7* 


154  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  Ho,  bowmeo,  bend  your  bows  !     Discharge  upon  the 
foes, 
Forthwith  no  end  of  those  heavy  bolts. 
Three  angels  to  the  brave  who  finds  the  foe  a  grave, 
And  a  gallows  for  the  slave 

Who  revolts !" 


Ten  days  the  combat  lasted ;  but  the  bold  defenders 
fasted. 
While  the  foemen,  better  pastied,  fed  their  host ; 
You  might  hear  the  savage  cheers  of  the  hmigry  Gorba- 
liers, 
As  at  night  they  dressed  the  steers 

For  the  roast. 


And  Sir  Launcelot  grew  thin,  and  Provan's  double  chin 
Showed  sundry  folds  of  skui  down  beneath ; 

In  silence  and  in  grief  found  Gilkison  relief. 
Nor  did  Neish  the  spellword,  beef. 

Dare  to  breathe. 


To  the   ramparts   Edith   came,  that  fair  and  youthful 
dame, 
With  the  rosy  evening  flame  on  her  face. 
She  sighed,  and  looked  around  on  the  soldiers  on  th- 
ground, 
Who  but  little  penance  found. 

Saying  grace ! 


THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  155 

And  she  said  unto  her   lord,  as   he   leaned  upon  his 
sword, 
"  One  short  and  little  wo)  d  may  I  speak  ? 
I  cannot  bear  to  view  those  eyes  so  ghastly  blue, 
Or  mark  the  sallow  hue 

Of  thy  cheek ! 


"  I  know  the  rage  and  wrath  that  ray  furious  brother 
hath 
Is  less  against  us  both  than  at  me. 
Then,  dearest,  let  me  go,  to  find  among  the  foe 
An  arrow  from  the  bow, 

Like  Brownlee !" 


"  I  would  soil  my  father's  name,  I  would  lose  my  trea- 
sured fame, 
Ladye  mine,  should  such  a  shame  on  me  light: 
While    I    wear    a    belted    brand,    together    still    we 
stand. 
Heart  to  heart,  hand  to  hand  !" 

Said  the  knight. 


"  All  our  chances  are  not  lost,  as  your  brother  and  his 
host 
Shall  discover  to  their  cost  rather  hard ! 
Ho,  Provan !  take  this  key — hoist  up  the  Malvoisie, 
And  heap  it,  d'  ye  see. 

In  the  yard. 


156  THE    BOOK    OF   BAJLJLADS. 

"  Of  usquebaugh    and    rum,  you  will   find  I  reckon 
some, 
Besides  the  beer  and  mum,  extra  stout ; 
Go  straightway    to   your   tasks,  and    loU    me  all  the 
casks, 
As  also  range  the  flasks. 

Just  without. 

"  If  I  know  the  Grorbaliers,  they  are  sure  to  dip  their 
ears 
In  the  very  inmost  tiers  of  the  drink. 
Let  them  win  the  outer-court,  and  hold  it  for  their  sport, 
Since  their  time  is  rather  short, 

I  should  think !" 

With  a  loud  triumphant  yell,  as  the  heavy  drawbridge 
fell. 
Rushed  the  Gorbaliers  pell-mell,  wild  as  Druids  ; 
Mad  with  thirst  for  human  gore,  how  they  threatened 
and  they  swore, 
TRU  they  stumbled  on  the  floor, 

O'er  the  fluids ! 

Down  their  weapons  then  they  threv/,  and  each  savage 
soldier  drew 
From  his  belt  an  iron  screw.  In  his  fist : 
George  of  Gorbala  found  it  vain  their   excitement  to 
restrain. 
And  indeed  was  rather  fain 

To  assist. 


THB   BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  157 

With  a  beaker  in  his  hand,  in  the  midst  he  took  his 
stand, 
And  silence  did  command  all  below — 
"  Ho !  Launcelot  the  bold,  ere  thy  lips  are  icy  cold, 
In  the  centre  of  thy  hold, 

Pledge  me  now  ! 


"Art    surly,   brother  mine  ?      In  this    cup   of    rosy 
wine, 
I  drink  to  the  decline  of  thy  race ! 
Thy  proud  career  is  done,  thy  sand  is  nearly  run. 
Never  more  shall  setting  sun 

GUd  thy  face ! 


"The  pilgrim  in  amaze,  shall  see  a  goodly  blaze, 

Ere  the  pallid  morning  rays  flicker  up. 
And  perchance  he  may  espy  certain  corpses  swinging 
high! 
What,  brother  !  art  thou  dry  ? 

Fill  my  cup !" 


Dumb  as  death  stood  Launcelot,  as  though  he  heard 
him  not, 
But  his  bosom  Provan  smote,  and  he  swore ; 
And     Sir    Roderick    Dalgleish,    remarked     aside     to 
Neish, 
"  Never  sure  did  thirsty  fish 

Swallow  more !" 


158  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"Thirty  casks  are  nearly  done,  yet  the  revel  's  scaroe 
begun, 
It  were  knightly  sport  and  fun  to  strike  in !" 
"Nay,  tarry  till  they  come,"  quoth  Neish,  "unto  the 
rum — 
They  are  working  at  the  mum. 

And  the  gin !" 

Then  straight  there  did  appear  to  each  gallant  Gorbalier 

Twenty  castles  dancing  near,  all  around, 
The  solid  earth  did  shake,  and  the  stones  beneath  them 
quake, 
And  sinuous  as  a  snake 

Moved  the  ground. 

Why  and  wherefore  they  had  come,  seemed  intricate  to 
some, 
But  all  agreed  the  rum  was  divine. 
And  they  looked  with  bitter  scorn  on  their  leader  highly 
bom, 
Who  preferred  to  fill  his  horn 

Up  with  wine ! 

Then  said  Launcelot  the  tall,  "  Bring  the  chargers  from 
their  stall ; 
Lead  them  straight  unto  the  hall,  down  below : 
Draw  your  weapons  from   your  side,  fling  the  gates 
asunder  wide, 
And  together  we  shall  ride 

On  the  foe !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  159 

Then  Provan  knew  full    well,  as  he   leaped  into   his 
selle, 
That  few  would  'scape  to  tell  how  they  fared, 
And  Gilkison  and  Nares,  both  mounted  on  their  mares, 
Looked  terrible  as  bears. 

All  prepared. 

With  his  bloodhounds  in  the  leash,  stood  the  iron-sinew- 
ed Neish, 
And  the  falchion  of  Dalgleish  glittered  bright — 
"  Now,  wake  the  trumpet's  blast ;  and,  comrades,  follow 
fast; 
Smite  them  down  unto  the  last !" 

Cried  the  knight. 

In  the  cumbered  yard  without,  there  was  shriek,  and 
yell,  and  shout. 
As  the  warriors  wheeled  about,  all  in  mail. 
On  the  miserable  kerne,  fell  the  death-strokes  stiff  and 
stern, 
As  the  deer  treads  down  the  fern, 

In  the  vale ! 

Saint  Mungo  be   my  guide !      It  was   goodly  in  that 
tide 
To  see  the  Bogle  ride  in  his  haste ; 
He  accompanied  each  blow,  with  a  cry  of  "  Ha !"  or 
«  Ho !" 
And  always  cleft  the  foe 

To  the  waist. 


16()  THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

"  George  of  Gorbals— craven  lord !  thou  didst  threat  me 
with  the  cord, 
Come  forth  and  brave  my  sword,  if  you  dare  !*' 
But  he  met  with  no  reply,  and  never  could  descry 
The  glitter  of  his  eye 

Anywhere. 


Ere  the  dawn  of  morning  shone,  all  the  Gorbaliers  were 
down. 
Like  a  field  of  barley  mown  in  the  ear : 
It  had  done  a  soldier  good,  to  see  how  Provan  stood, 
With  Neish  all  bathed  in  blood, 

Panting  near. 


"Now    ply  ye  to  your  tasks — go  carry  down   those 
casks. 
And  place  the  empty  flasks  on  the  floor. 
George  of  Gorbals  scarce  will  come,  with  trumpet  and 
with  drum, 
To  taste  our  beer  and  rum 

Any  more ! 


So  they  plied  them  to  their  tasks,  and  they  carried  down 
the  casks, 
And  replaced  the  empty  flasks  on  the  floor ; 
But  pallid  for  a  week  was  the  cellar  master's  cheek, 
For  he  swore  he  heard  a  shriek 

Through  the  door. 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  161 

When  the  merry  Christmas  came,  and  the  Yule-log  lent 
its  flame 
To  the  face  of  squire  and  dame  in  the  hall, 
The  cellarer  went  down  to  tap  October  brown, 
Which  was  rather  of  renown 

'Mongst  them  all. 

He  placed  the  spigot  low,  and  gave  the  cask  a  blow. 

But  his  liquor  would  not  flow  through  the  pin. 
"Sure,  't  is  sweet  as  honeysuckles!"  so  he  rapped  it 
with  his  knuckles. 
But  a  sound  as  if  of  buckles, 

Clashed  within. 

"  Bring  a  hatchet,  varlets,  here  !"    and  they  cleft  the 
cask  of  beer ; 
What  a  spectacle  of  fear  met  their  sight ! 
There  George  of  Gorbals  lay,  skull  and  bones  all  blanched 
and  grey. 
In  the  arms  he  bore  the  day 

Of  the  fight! 

I  have  sung  this  ancient  tale,  not,  I  trust,  without  avail, 
Though  the  moral  ye  may  fail  to  perceive. 

Sir  Launcelot  is  dust,  and  his  gallant  sword  is  rust, 
And  now,  I  think,  I  must 

Take  my  leave ! 


16^ 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


[Am—"  The  days  we  went  a  ^psying."] 

I  WOULD  all  womankind  were  dead, 

Or  banished  o'er  the  sea ; 
For  they  have  been  a  bitter  plague 

These  last  six  weeks  to  me  : 
It  is  not  that  I  'm  touched  myselij 

For  that  I  do  not  fear  ; 
No  female  face  hath  shown  me  grace 
For  many  a  bygone  year. 

But 't  is  the  most  infernal  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who  's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

Whene'er  we  steam  it  to  Blackwall, 

Or  down  to  Greenwich  run. 
To  quaff  the  pleasant  cider  cup, 

And  feed  on  fish  and  fun  ; 


THB   BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  16iB 

Or  climb  the  slopes  of  Richmond  Hill, 

To  catch  a  breath  of  air : 
Then,  for  my  sins,  he  straight  begins 
To  rave  about  his  fair. 

Oh,  't  is  the  most  tremendous  liore. 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know. 
To  have  a  friend  who  's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

In  vain  you  pour  into  his  ear 
Your  own  confiding  grief; 
In  vain  you  claim  his  sympathy. 

In  vain  you  ask  relief; 
In  vain  you  try  to  rouse  him  by 

Joke,  repartee,  or  quiz  ; 
His  sole  reply  's  a  burning  sigh, 
And  "  What  a  mind  it  is !" 

O  Lord  !  it  is  the  greatest  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who  's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

I've  heard  her  thoroughly  described 

A  hundred  times,  1  'm  sure ; 
And  all  the  while  I  've  tried  to  smile. 

And  patiently  endure ; 
He  waxes  strong  upon  his  pangs. 

And  potters  o'er  his  grog ; 
And  still  I  say,  in  a  playfiil  way — 

"  Why  you  're  a  lucky  dog  !" 


164  1'H£    BOOK   OF    BALLADS. 

But  oh  !  it  is  the  heaviest  bore, 
Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 

To  have  a  friend  who's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

I  really  wish  he'd  do  like  me 
When  I  was  young  and  strong ; 
4  I  formed  a  passion  every  week. 

But  never  kept  it  long. 
But  he  has  not  the  sportive  mood 

That  always  rescued  me. 
And  so  I  would  all  women  could 
Be  banished  o'er  the  sea. 

For  't  is  the  most  egregious  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know. 
To  have  a  friend  who's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 


TUK    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  1B5 


Mmm  Da  Eimiui 


TO    BON    GAULTIBR. 


AKotmBNT. — An  impassioned  pupil  of  Leigh  Hunt,  having  met  Bon 
Gaultier  at  a  Fancy  Ball,  declares  the  destructive  conseqaenoea 
thus.] 


Didst  thou  not  praise  me,  Gaultier,  at  the  ball, 
Ripe  lips,  trim  boddice,  and  a  waist  so  small, 
With  clipsome  lightness,  dwindling  ever  less, 
Beneath  the  robe  of  pea-y  greeniness  ? 
Dost  thou  remember,  when  with  stately  prance. 
Our  heads  went  crosswise  in  the  country  dance ; 
How  soft,  warm  fingers,  tipp'd  like  buds  of  balm. 
Trembled  within  the  squeezing  of  thy  palm ; 
And  how  a  cheek  grew  flush'd  and  peachy-wise 
At  the  frank  lifting  of  thy  cordial  eyes  ? 
Ah,  me  !  that  night  there  was  one  gentle  thing. 
Who  like  a  dove,  with  its  scarce-feather'd  wing, 
Flutter'd  at  the  approach  of  thy  quaint  swaggering ! 


166  THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

There 's  wont  to  be,  at  conscious  times  like  these, 
An  affectation  of  a  bright-eyed  ease, — 
A  crispy-cheekiness,  if  so  1  dare 
Describe  the  swaling  of  a  jaunty  air ; 
And  thus,  when  swirling  from  the  waltz's  wheel, 
You  craved  my  hand  to  grace  the  next  quadrille, 
That  smiling  voice,  although  it  made  me  start, 
Boil'd  in  the  meek  o'erlifting  of  my  heart ; 
And,  picking  at  my  flowers,  I  said  with  free 
And  usual  tone,  "  Oh  yes,  sir,  certainly  !" 

Like  one  that  swoons,  'twlxt  sweet  amaze  and  fear, 

I  heard  the  music  burning  in  my  ear. 

And  felt  I  cared  not,  so  thou  wert  with  me. 

If  Gurth  or  Wamba  were  our  vis-a-vis. 

So,  when  a  tall  Knight  Templar  ringing  came. 

And  took  his  place  against  us  with  his  dame, 

I  neither  turned  away,  nor  bashful  shrunk 

From  the  stem  survey  of  the  soldier-monk, 

Though  rather  more  than  full  three-quarters  drunk ; 

But  threading  through  the  figure,  first  in  rule, 

I  paused  to  see  thee  plunge  into  La  Poule. 

Ah,  what  a  sight  was  that  1     Not  prurient  Mars, 
Pointing  his  toe  through  ten  celestial  bars — 
Not  young  Apollo,  bcamily  array'd 
In  tripsome  guise  for  Juno's  masquerade — 
Not  smartest  Hermes,  with  his  pinion  girth, 
Jerking  with  freaks  and  snatches  down  to  earth, 
Look'd  half  so  bold,  so  beautiful  and  strong. 
As  thou  when  pranking  thro'  the  glittering  throng ! 


TRZ    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  167 

How  the  calm'd  ladies  looked  with  eyes  of  love 
On  thy  trim  velvet  doublet  laced  above  ; 
The  hem  of  gold,  that,  like  a  wavy  river, 
Flowed  down  into  thy  back  with  glancing  shiver ! 
So  bare  was  thy  fine  throat,  and  curls  of  black 
So  lightsomely  dropp'd  on  thy  lordly  back, 
So  crisply  swaled  the  feather  in  thy  bonnet. 
So  glanced  thy  thigh,  and  spanning  palm  upon  it, 
That  my  weak  soul  took  instant  flight  to  thee. 
Lost  in  the  fondest  gush  of  that  sweet  witchery  ! 

But  when  the  dance  was  o'er,  and  arm  in  arm, 

(The  full  heart  beating  'gainst  the  elbow  warm,) 

We  pass'd  into  the  great  refreshment  hall, 

Where  the  heap'd  cheese-cakes  and  the  comfits  small 

Lay,  like  a  hive  of  sunbeams,  brought  to  bum 

Around  the  margin  of  the  negus  urn ; 

When  ray  poor  quivering  hand  you  finger'd  twice, 

And,  with  enquiring  accents,  whisper'd  "  Ice, 

Water,  or  cream  ?"     I  could  no  more  dissemble, 

But  dropp'd  upon  the  couch  all  in  a  tremble. 

A  swimming  faintness  misted  o'er  my  brain. 

The  corks  seem'd  starting  from  the  brisk  champagne. 

The  custards  fell  untouch'd  upon  the  floor. 

Thine  eyes  met  mine.    That  night  we  danced  no  more ! 


16d  THE  BOOK  OF  BALLADS. 


A  LKOKND  OF  THE  B08PHORU8. 

How  beauteous  is  the  star  of  night 

Within  the  eastern  skies, 
Like  the  twinkling  glance  of  the  Toorkman's  lance, 

Or  the  antelope's  azure  eyes ! 
A  lamp  of  love  in  the  heaven  above, 

That  star  is  fondly  streaming ; 
And  the  gay  kiosk  and  the  shadowy  mosque 

In  the  Golden  Horn  are  gleaming. 
Young  Leila  sits  in  her  jasmine  bower, 

And  she  hears  the  bulbul  sing, 
As  it  thrills  its  throat  to  the  first  full  note. 

That  anthems  the  flowery  spring. 
She  gazes  still,  as  a  maiden  will. 

On  that  beauteous  eastern  star  : 
You  might  see  the  throb  of  her  bosom's  sob 

Beneath  the  white  cymar ! 

She  thinks  of  him  who  is  far  away, — 

Her  own  brave  Galiongee, — 
Where  the  billows  foam  and  the  breezes  roam, 

On  the  wild  Carpathian  sea. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  109 

She  thinks  of  the  oath  that  bound  them  Loth 

Beside  the  stormy  water ; 
And  the  words  of  love,  that  in  Athens'  grove 

He  spake  to  the  Cadi's  daughter. 

"  My  Selim  !"  thus  the  maiden  said, 

"  Though  severed  thus  we  be, 
By  the  raging  deep  and  the  mountains'  steep, 

My  soul  still  yearns  to  thee. 
Thy  form  so  dear  is  rairror'd  here 

In  my  heart's  pellucid  well, 
As  the  rose  looks  up  to  Phingari's  orb, 

Or  the  moth  to  the  gay  gazelle, 

"  I  think  of  the  time,  when  the  Kaftan's  crime 

Our  love's  young  joys  o'ertook. 
And  thy  name  still  floats  in  the  plaintive  notes 

Of  my  silver-toned  chibouque. 
Thy  hand  is  red  with  the  blood  it  has  shed, 

Thy  soqI  it  is  heavy  laden  ; 
Yet  come,  my  Giaour,  to  thy  Leila's  bower ; 

Oh,  come  to  thy  Turkish  maiden !" 

A  light  step  trode  on  the  dewy  sod. 

And  a  voice  was  in  her  ear, 
And  an  arm  embraced  young  Leila's  waist — 

"  lieloved  !  I  am  here  !" 
Like  the  phantom  form  that  rules  the  storm, 

Appeared  the  pirate  lover, 
And  his  fiery  eye  was  like  Zatanai, 

As  he  loudly  bent  above  her. 


170  THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

"  Speak,  Leila,  speak  !  for  my  light  caique 

Rides  proudly  in  yonder  bay ;  , 

I  have  come  from  my  rest  to  her  I  love  best, 

To  carry  thee,  love,  away. 
The  breast  of  thy  lover  shall  shield  thee,  and  cover 

My  oven  jemscheed  from  harm  ; 
Tliink'st  thou  I  fear  the  dark  vizier, 

Or  the  mufti's  vengeful  arm  ? 

"  Then  droop  not,  love,  nor  turn  away 

From  this  rude  hand  of  mine !" 
And  Leila  looked  in  her  lover's  eyes. 

And  murmured — "  I  am  thine !" 
But  a  gloomy  man  with  a  yataghan 

Stole  through  the  acacia  blossoms. 
And  the  thrust  he  made  with  his  gleaming  blade 

Had  pierced  through  both  their  bosoms. 

"  There !  there  !  thou  cursed  caitiff  Giaour  ! 

There,  there,  thou  false  one,  lie !" 
Remorseless  Hassan  stands  above, 

And  he  smiles  to  see  them  die. 
They  sleep  beneath  the  fresh  green  turf, 

The  lover  and  the  lady — 
And  the  maidens  wail  to  hear  the  tale 

Of  the  daughter  of  the  Cadi ! 


THE   BOOK    OF   BAXLADS.  171 


in^nn  §mnik. 


The  minarets  wave  on  the  plain  of  Stamboul, 

And  the  breeze  of  the  evening  blows  freshly  and  cool ; 

The  voice  of  the  musnud  is  heard  from  the  west, 

And  kaftan  and  kalpac  have  gone  to  their  rest, 

The  notes  of  the  kislar  re-echo  no  more, 

And  the  waves  of  Al  Sirat  fall  light  on  the  shore. 

Where  art  thou,  my  beauty  ;  where  art  thou,  my  bride  ? 

Oh,  come  and  repose  by  the  dragoman's  side  ! 

I  wait  for  thee  still  by  the  flowery  tophaik — 

I  have  broken  my  Eblis  for  Zuleima's  sake. 

But  the  heart  that  adores  thee  is  faithful  and  true. 

Though  it  beats  'neath  the  folds  of  a  Greek  Allah-hu  ! 

Oh,  wake  thee,  my  dearest !  the  muftis  are  still. 

And  the  tschocadars  sleep  on  the  Franguestan  hill ; 

No  sullen  aleikoum — no  derveesh  is  here. 

And  the  mosques  are  all  watching  by  lonely  Kashmere '. 

Oh,  come  iu  the  gush  of  thy  beauty  so  full, 

I  have  waited  for  thee,  my  adored  attar-gul ! 


172  THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS. 

I  see  thee — I  hear  thee — thy  antelope  foot 
Treads  lightly  and  soft  on  the  velvet  cheroot ; 
The  jewelled  amaun  of  thy  zemzem  is  bare, 
And  the  folds  of  thy  palampore  wave  in  the  air. 
Come,  rest  on  the  bosom  that  loves  thee  so  well, 
My  dove !  my  phingari !  my  gentle  gazelle ! 

Nay,  tremble  not,  dearest !     I  feel  thy  heart  throb, 
'Neath  the  sheltering  shroud  of  thy  snowy  kiebaub ; 
Lo,  there  shines  Muezzin,  the  beautiful  star ! 
Thy  lover  is  with  thee,  and  danger  afar : 
Say,  is  it  the  glance  of  the  haughty  vizier. 
Or  the  bark  of  the  distant  effendi,  you  fear  ? 

Oh,  swift  fly  the  hours  in  the  garden  of  bliss ! 
And  sweeter  than  balm  of  Gehenna,  thy  kiss  ! 
Wherever  I  wander — wherever  I  roam. 
My  spirit  flies  back  to  its  beautiful  home  : 
It  dwells  by  the  lake  of  the  limpid  Stamboul, 
With  thee,  my  adored  one  !  my  own  attar-gul ! 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  173 


€\}t  DFfltjj  nf  iiiiial. 


PH,    KSQ. 


"  Metliinks  I  see  him  already  in  the  cart,  sweeter  and  more  lovely 
than  the  nosegay  in  his  hand  !  I  hear  the  crowd  extolling  his  re- 
solution and  intrepidity  !  What  volleys  of  siglis  are  sent  from 
the  windows  of  Holborn,  that  so  comely  a  youth  should  be  brought 
to  disgrace  !  1  see  him  at  the  tree !  the  whole  circle  are  in  tears  ! 
even  butchers  -weep !" — Beggar's  Oper4.. 


A  LIVING  sea  of  eager  human  faces, 

A  thousand  bosoms,  throbbing  all  as  one, 

Walls,  windows,  balconies,  all  sorts  of  places, 
Holding  their  crowds  of  gazers  to  the  sun : 
Through  the  hushed  groups  low  buzzing  murmurs  run; 

And  on  the  air,  with  slow  reluctant  swell, 

Comes  the  dull  funeral  boom  of  old  Sepulchre's  bell. 

Oh,  joy  in  London  now  !  in  festal  measure 
Be  spent  the  evening  of  this  festive  day  ! 

For  thee  is  opening  now  a  high-strung  pleasure 
Now,  even  now,  in  yonder  press-yard  they 
Strike  from  his  limbs  the  fetters  loose  away  ! 

A  little  while,  and  he,  the  brave  Duval, 

Will  issue  forth,  serene,  to  glad  and  greet  you  all. 


174  TUB    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  Why  comes  he  not  1  say,  wherefore  doth  he  tarry  ?" 
Starts  the  enquiry  loud  from  every  tongue. 

"  Surely,"  they  cry,  "  that  tedious  Ordinary 

His  tedious  psalms  must  long  ere  this  have  sung, — 
Tedious  to  him  that's  waiting  to  be  hung  !" 

But  hark  !  old  Newgate's  doors  fly  wide  apart. 

"  He  comes,  he  comes !"     A  thrill  shoots  through  each 
gazer's  heart. 

Join'd  in  the  stunning  cry  ten  thousand  voices, 
All  Smithfield  answered  to  the  loud  acclaim. 
"  He  comes,  he  comes !"  and  every  breast  rejoices, 
As  down  Snow  Hill  the  shout  tumultuous  came, 
Bearing  to  Holborn's  crowd  the  welcome  fame. 
"  He  comes,   he    comes !"   and    each  holds  back   his 

breath, — 
Some  ribs  are  broke  and  some  few  scores  are  crush'd  to 
death. 

With  step  majestic  to  the  cart  advances 

The  dauntless  Claude,  and  springs  into  his  seat. 

He  feels  that  on  him  now  are  fix'd  the  glances 
Of  many  a  Britain  bold  and  maiden  sweet, 
W^hose  hearts  responsive  to  his  glories  beat. 

In  him  the  honor  of  "  The  Road"  is  centred. 

And  all  the  hero's  fire  into  his  bosom  enter'd. 

His  was  the  transport — his  the  exultation 

Of  Rome's  great  generals,  when  from  afar. 
Up  to  the  Capitol,  in  the  ovation. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  175 

They  bore  with  them  in  the  triumphal  car, 

Rich  gold  and  gems,  the  spoils  of  foreign  war. 
lo  Triumphe  !     They  forgot  their  clay. 
E'en  so  Duval  who  rode  in  glory  on  his  way. 


His  laced  cravat,  his  kids  of  purest  yellow, 
The  many-tinted  nosegay  in  his  hand. 

His  large  black  eyes,  so  fiery,  yet  so  mellow, 
Like  the  old  vintages  of  Spanish  land. 
Locks  clustering  o'er  a  brow  of  high  command. 

Subdue  all  hearts  ;  and,  as  up  Holborn's  steep 

Toils  the  slow  car  of  death,  e'en  cruel  butchers  weep. 


He  saw  it,  but  he  heeded  not.     His  story, 
He  knew,  was  graven  on  the  page  of  Time. 

Tybum  to  him  was  as  a  field  of  glory. 

Where  he  must  stoop  to  death  his  head  sublime, 
Hymn'd  in  full  many  an  elegiac  rhyme. 

He  left  his  deeds  behind  him,  and  his  name — 

For  he,  like  Caesar,  had  lived  long  enough  for  fame. 

He  quail'd  not,  save  when,  as  he  raised  the  chalice, — 
St.  Giles's  bowl, — ^filled  with  the  mildest  ale. 

To  pledge  the  crowd,  on  her — his  beauteous  Alice — 
His  eye  alighted,  and  his  cheek  grew  pale. 
She,  whose  sweet  breath  was  like  the  spicy  gale, 

iShe,  whom  he  fondly  deem'd  his  own  dear  girl, 

Stood  with  a  tal]  dragoon,  drinking  long  draughts  of 
purl. 


176  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

He  bit  his  lip — it  quiver'd  but  a  moment — 
Then  pass'd  his  hand  across  his  flashing  brows : 

He  could  have  spared  so  forcible  a  comment 
Upon  the  constancy  of  woman's  vows. 
One  short,  sharp  pang  his  hero-soul  allows  ; 

But  in  the  bowl  he  drowned  the  stinging  pain, 

And  on  his  pilgrim-course  went  calmly  forth  again. 

A  princely  group  of  England's  noble  daughters 

Stood  in  a  balcony  suffused  with  grief, 
Diffusing  fragrance  round  them,  of  strong  waters, 

And  waving  many  a  snowy  handkerchief. 

Then  glow'd  the  prince  of  highwayman  and  thief! 
His  soul  was  touched  with  a  seraphic  gleam  : — 
That  woman  could  be  false  was  but  a  mocking  dream. 

And  now,  his  bright  career  of  triumph  ended, 
His  chariot  stood  beneath  the  triple  tree. 

The  law's  grim  finisher  to  its  boughs  ascended, 
And  fix'd  the  hempen  bandages,  while  he 
Bow'd  to  the  throng,  then  bade  the  car  go  free. 

The  car  roU'd  on,  and  lefl  him  dangling  there 

Like  famed  Mahommed's  tomb,  uphung  midway  in  air 

As  droops  the  cup  of  the  surcharged  lily 
Beneath  the  buffets  of  the  surly  storm, 

Or  the  sofl  petals  of  the  daffodilly, 
When  Sirius  is  uncomfortably  warm, 
So  drooped  his  head  upon  his  manly  form, 

While  floated  in  the  breeze  his  tresses  brown. 

He  hung  the  stated  time,  and  then  they  cut  him  down. 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  ITT 

With  soft  and  tender  care  the  trainbands  bore  him, 
Just  as  they  found  him,  nightcap,  rope,  and  all, 

And  placed  this  neat  though  plain  inscription  o'er  him, 
Among  the  otomies  in  Surgeon's  Hall : 
"These  are  the  Bones  of  the  kenown'd  Duval!" 

There  still  they  tell  us,  from  their  glassy  case, 

He  was  the  last,  the  best  of  all  that  noble  race  ! 


d* 


J7B  1H£    BOOK    OF    BALLAPS^ 


Ch  f^irgt  nf  tdt  rrinkrr. 


BT   W E A ,   ESQ. 

Brothers,  spare  awhile  your  liquor,  lay  your  final  tum- 
bler down ; 
He  has  dropp'd — that  star  of  honor— on  the  field  of  his 

renown  ! 
Raise  the  wail,  but  raise  it  softly,  lowly  bending  on  your 

knees. 
If  you  find  it  more  convenient,  you  may  hiccup  if  you 

please. 
Sons  of  Pantagruel,  gently  let  your  hip-hurraing  sink, 
Be  your  manly  accents  clouded,  half  with  sorrow,  half 

with  drink ! 
Lightly  to  the  sofa  pillow  lift  his  head  from  off  the  floor ; 
See,  how  calm  he  sleeps,  unconscious  as  the  deadest  nail 

in  door! 
Widely  o'er  the  earth  I've  wander'd ;  where  the  drink 

most  freely  flow'd, 
I  have  ever  reel'd  the  foremost,  foremost  to  the  beaker 

strode. 


THE    BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  179 

Deep  in  shady  Cider  Cellars  I  have  dream'd  o'er  heavy 

wet, 
By  the  fountains  of  Damascus  I  have  quaff'd  the  ric) 

Sherbet, 
Regal  Montepulciano  drained  beneath  its  native  rock, 
On  Johannis'  sunny  mountain  frequent  hiccup'd  o'er  my 

hock; 
I  have  bathed  in  butts  of  Xeres  deeper  than  did  e'er 

Monsoon, 
Sangaree'd  with  bearded  Tartars  in  the  Mountains  of  the 

Moon; 
In  beer-swilling  Copenhagen  I  have  drunk  your  Danes- 
man  blind, 
I  have  kept  my  feet  in  Jena,  when  each  bursch  to  earth 

declined ; 
Glass  for  glass,  in  fierce  Jamaica,  1   havs  shared  the 

planter's  rum. 
Drank  with  Highland  dhuinie-wassels,  till  each  gibbering 

Gael  grew  dumb ; 
But  a  stouter,  bolder  drinker — one  that  loved  his  liquor 

more — 
Never   yet  did  I   encounter  than  our  friend  upon  the 

floor! 
Yet  the  best  of  us  are  mortal,  we  to  weakness  all  are  heir, 
He  has  fallen,  who  rarely  stagger'd — let  the  rest  of  us 

beware ! 
We  shall  leave  him,  as  we  found  him, — lying  where  his 

manhood  fell, 
'Mong  the  trophies  of  the  revel,  for  he  took  his  tipple 

well. 


180  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Better  't  were  we  loosed  his  neckcloth,  laid  his  throat 

and  bosom  bare, 
Pulled  his  Hobies  off,  and  turn'd  his  toes  to  taste  the 

breezy  air. 
Throw  the  sofa  cover  o'er  him,  dim  the  flaring  of  the 

gas, 
Calmly,  calmly  let  him  slumber,  and,  as  by  the  bar  we 

pass, 
We  shall  bid  that  thoughtful  waiter  place  beside  him, 

near  and  handy, 
Large  supplies  of  soda  water,  tumbler's  bottomed  well 

with  brandy. 
So  when  waking,  he  shall  drain  them,  with  that  deathless 

thirst  of  his. 
Clinging  to  the  hand  that  smote  him,  like  a  good  'un  a& 

he  is! 


IHK   BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  181 


When  folks  with  headstrong  passion  blind, 
To  play  the  fool  make  up  their  mind, 
They  're  sure  to  come  with  phrases  nice, 
And  modest  air,  for  your  advice. 
But,  as  a  truth  unfailing  make  it. 
They  ask,  but  never  mean  to  take  it. 
T?  is  not  advice  they  want,  in  fact, 
But  confirmation  in  their  act. 
Now  mark  what  did,  in  such  a  case, 
A  worthy  priest  who  knew  the  race. 

A  dame  more  buxsome,  blithe  and  free, 
Than  Fredegonde  you  scarce  would  see. 
So  smart  her  dress,  so  trim  her  shape. 
Ne'er  hostess  ofTer'd  juice  of  grape, 
C!ould  for  her  trade  wish  better  sign  ; 
Her  looks  gave  flavor  to  her  wine. 
And  each  guest  feels  it,  as  he  sips. 
Smack  of  the  ruby  of  her  lips. 
A  smile  for  all,  a  welcome  glad, — 
A  jovial  coaxing  way  she  had  ; 


183  TH£    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

And, — what  was  more  her  fate  than  blame, — 

A  nine  months'  widow  was  our  dame. 

But  toil  was  hard,  for  trade  was  good, 

And  gallants  softietimes  will  be  rude. 

"  And  what  can  a  lone  woman  do  1 

The  nights  are  long,  and  eerie  too. 

Now,  Guillot  there  's  a  likely  man. 

None  better  draws  or  taps  a  can ; 

He  's  just  the  man,  I  think,  to  suit, 

If  I  could  bring  my  courage  to  't." 

With  thoughts  like  these  her  mind  is  cross'd  : 

The  dame,  they  say,  who  doubts  is  lost. 

"  But  then  the  risk  1     I'll  beg  a  slice 

Of  Father  Kaulin's  good  advice." 

Prankt  in  her  best,  with  looks  demure, 
She  seeks  the  priest ;  and,  to  be  sure. 
Asks  if  he  thinks  she  ought  to  wed  : 
"  With  such  a  business  on  my  head, 
I  'm  worried  off  my  legs  with  care, 
And  need  some  help  to  keep  things  square. 
I  Vc  thought  of  Guillot,  truth  to  tell ! 
He  's  steady,  knows  his  business  well. 
What  do  you  think  ?"     When  thus  he  met  her ; 
"  Oh,  take  him,  dear,  you  can't  do  better !" 
"  But  then  the  danger,  my  good  past'or, 
If  of  the  man  I  make  the  master. 
There  is  no  trusting  to  these  men." 
"  Well,  well,  my  dear,  don't  have  him  then !" 
"  But  help  I  must  have,  there  's  the  curse. 
I  may  go  farther  and  fare  worse." 


THE   BOOK   OF   BALLADS.  188 

"  Why,  take  him  then  !"     «  But  if  he  should 

Turn  out  a  thankless  ne'er-do-good, — 

In  drink  and  riot  waste  my  all, 

And  rout  me  out  of  house  andhalH" 

"  Don't  have  him,  then !     But  I  've  a  plan 

To  clear  your  doubts,  if  any  can. 

The  bells  a  peal  are  ringing, — hark ! 

Go  straight,  and  what  they  tell  you  mark. 

If  they  say  '  Yes !'  wed,  and  be  blest — 

If  '  No,'  why — do  as  you  think  best." 

The  bells  rung  out  a  triple  bob  : 
Oh,  how  our  widow's  heart  did  throb, 
As  thus  she  heard  their  burden  go, 
*'  Marry,  mar-marry,  mar-Guillot !" 
Bells  were  not  then  left  to  hang  idle  : 
A  week, — and  the  rang  for  her  bridal. 
But,  woe  the  while,  they  might  as  well 
Have  rung  the  poor  dame's  parting  knell. 
The  rosy  dimples  left  her  cheek. 
She  lost  her  beauties  plump  and  sleek ; 
For  Guillot  oftener  kicked  than  kiss'd 
And  back'd  his  orders  with  his  fist. 
Proving  by  deeds  as  well  as  words. 
That  servants  make  the  worst  of  lords. 

She  seeks  the  priest,  her  ire  to  wreak, 
And  speaks  as  angry  women  speak. 
With  tiger  looks,  and  bosom  swelling. 
Cursing  the  hoxu'  she  took  his  telling. 


184  "  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

To  all,  his  calm  reply  was  this, — 
"  I  fear  you  've  read  the  bells  amiss. 
If  they  have  led  you  wrong  in  aught. 
Your  wish,  not  they,  inspired  the  thought. 
Just  go,  and  mark  well  what  they  say." 
Off  trudged  the  dame  upon  her  way, 
And  sure  enough  their  chime  went  so, — 
"  Don't  have  that  knave,  that  knave  Guillot !" 

"  Too  true,"  she  cried,  "  there  's  not  a  doubt : 
What  could  my  ears  have  been  about !" 
She  had  forgot,  that,  as  fools  think, 
The  bell  is  ever  sure  to  clink. 


THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  185 


'(H'fie  DFatji  nf  Ssjiniiiji. 


TThig  and  the  six  following  poems  are  examples  of  that  new  achieve- 
ment of  modern  son? — which,  blending  the  vtile  with  the  dulce, 
symbolizes  at  once  the  practical  and  spiritual  characteristics  of 
the  age, — and  is  called  familiarly  "  the  puff  poetical."] 


Died  the  Jew  1     "  The  Hebrew  died. 

On  the  pavement  cold  he  lay, 
Around  him  closed  the  living  tide ; 

The  butcher's  cad  set  down  his  tray : 
The  pot-boy  from  the  Dragon  Green 

No  longer  for  his  pewter  calls ; 
The  Nereid  rushes  in  between, 

Nor  more  her  '  Fine  live  mackerel !'  bawls." 

Died  the  Jew  1     "  The  Hebrew  died. 

They  raised  him  gently  from  the  stone, 
They  flung  his  coat  and  neckcloth  wide — 

But  linen  had  that  Hebrew  none. 
They  raised  the  pile  of  hats  that  pressed 

His  noble  head,  his  locks  of  snow ; 
But,  ah,  that  head,  upon  his  breast. 

Sank  down  with  an  expiring  '  Clo  !' " 


18G  THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 

Died  the  Jew  1     "  The  Hebrew  died, 

Struck  with  overwhelming  qualms, 
From  the  flavor  spreading  wide 

Of  some  fine  Virginia  Hams. 
Would  you  know  the  fatal  spot, 

Fatal  to  that  child  of  sin  ? 
These  fine-flavored  hams  are  bought 

At  50,  BiSHOPSGATE  Within  !" 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  187 


f  art's  life  f  illi 


T  WAS  in  the  town  of  Lubeck. 

A  hundred  years  ago. 
An  old  man  walk'd  into  the  church 

With  beard  as  white  as  snow ; 
Yet  were  his  cheeks  not  wrinkled, 

Nor  dim  his  eagle  eye  : 
There's  many  a  knight  that  steps  the  street. 
Might  wonder,  should  he  chance  to  meet 

That  man  erect  and  high  ! 

When  silenced  was  the  organ, 

And  hush'd  the  vespers  loud. 
The  Sacristan  approached  the  sire. 

And  drew  him  from  the  crowd — 
"  There's  something  in  thy  visage, 

On  which  I  dare  not  look,  , 
And  when  I  rang  the  passing  bell, 
A  tremor  that  I  may  not  tell, 

My  very  vitals  shook. 


188  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  Who  art  thou,  awful  stranger  1 

Our  ancient  annals  say, 
That  twice  two  hundred  years  ago 

Another  passed  this  way, 
Like  thee  in  face  and  feature  ; 

And,  if  the  tale  be  true, 
'T  is  writ,  that  in  this  very  year 
Again  the  stranger  shall  appear. 

Art  thou  the  wandering  Jew  ?" 

"  The  wandering  Jew,  thou  dotard  !" 

The  wondrous  phantom  cried — 
'T  is  several  centuries  ago 

Since  that  poor  stripling  died. 
He  would  not  use  my  nostrums — 

See,  shaveling,  here  they  are ! 
These  put  to  flight  all  human  ills, 
These  conquer  death — unfailing  pills, 

Ajtid  I  'ra  the  inventor.  Parr  !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  .       189 


€flri|uitt  ml  tjit  Sngnr. 


Gingerly  is  good  King  Tarquin  shaving, 

Gently  glides  the  razor  o'er  his  chin, 
Near  him  stands  a  grim  Haruspex  raving, 
And  with  nasal  whine  he  pitches  in 
Church  Extension  hints, 
Till  the  monarch  squints, 
Snicks  his  chin,  and  swears — a  deadly  sin ! 

"  Jove  confound  thee,  thou  bare-legg'd  impo^r ! 

From  my  dressing-table  get  thee  gone  ! 
Dost  thou  think  my  flesh  is  double  Glo'ster  ? 
There  again !     That  cut  was  to  the  bone ! 
Get  ye  from  my  sight ; 
I  '11  believe  you  're  right 
When  my  razor  cuts  the  sharping  hone  !" 

Thus  spoke  Tarquin  with  a  deal  of  dryness ; 

But  the  Augur,  eager  for  his  fees. 
Answered — "  Try  it,  your  Imperial  Highness, 

Press  a  little  harder,  if  you  please. 


190  THE    BOOK    OP    BALLADS. 

There  !  the  deed  is  done  !" 
Through  the  solid  stone 
Went  the  steel  as  glibly  as  through  cheese. 

So  the  Augur  touch'd  the  tin  of  Tarquin, 

Who  suspected  some  celestial  aid : 
But  he  wronged  the  blameless  Gods  ;  for  hearken ! 
Ere  the  monarch's  bet  was  rashly  laid, 
With  his  seaching  eye 
Did  the  priest  espy 
RoDOERs'  name  engraved  upon  the  blade. 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  IJ»1 


ITfl  ^nrt  D'artlmr. 


NOT   BY   ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


Slowly,  as  one  who  bears  a  mortal  hurt, 
Through  which  the  fountain  of  his  life  runs  dry, 
Crept  good  King  Arthur  down  unto  the  lake. 
A  roughening  wind  was  bringing  in  the  waves 
With  cold,  dull  plash  and  plunging  to  the  shore, 
And  a  great  bank  of  clouds  came  sailing  up 
Athwart  the  aspect  of  the  gibbous  moon, 
Leaving  no  glimpse  save  starlight,  as  he  sank, 
With  a  short  stagger,  senseless  on  the  stones. 

No  man  yet  knows  how  long  he  lay  in  swound  ; 
But  long  enough  it  was  to  let  the  rust 
Lick  half  the  surface  of  his  polished  shield  ; 
For  it  was  made  by  far  inferior  hands 
Than  forged  his  helm,  his  breastplate,  and  his  greaves, 
Whereon  no  canker  lighted,  for  they  bore 
The  magic  stamp  of  Mechi's  Silver  Steel. 


192  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


3ii|iittr  m]i  tjiB  Mm  ^it 


"  Take  away  this  clammy  nectar !" 

Said  the  king  of  gods  and  men  ; 
*'  Never  at  Olympus'  table 

Let  that  trash  be  served  again. 
Ho,  Lyasus,  thou,  the  beery  ! 

Quick — ^invent  some  other  drink ; 
Or,  in  a  brace  of  shakes,  thou  standest 

On  Cocytus'  sulphury  brink!" 

Terror  shook  the  limbs  of  Bacchus, 

Paly  grew  his  pimpled  nose. 
And  already  in  his  rearward 

Felt  he  Jove's  tremendous  toes ; 
When  a  bright  idea  struck  him — 

"  Dash  my  thyrsus !  I  '11  be  bail — 
For  you  never  were  in  India — 

That  you  know  not  Hougson'h  Ale  !" 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS. 


lit 


"  Bring  it !"  quoth  the  Cloud-compeller ; 

And  the  wine-god  brought  the  beer — 
"  Port  and  Claret  are  like  water 

To  the  noble  stuff  that's  here !" 
And  Saturnius  drank  and  nodded, 

Winking  with  his  lightning  eyesj 
And  amidst  the  constellations 

Did  the  star  of  Hodgson  rise! 


I©4  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 


fljB  rfli(  of  tjie  Dnnhrij  lorntjirrs. 

CoATB  at  five-and-forty  shillings  !  trousers  ten-and-six  a 
pair! 

Summer  waistcoats,  three  a  sovereign,  light  and  comfort- 
able wear! 

Taglionis,  black  or  colored,  Chesterfield  and  velveteen ! 

The  old  English  shooting-jacket, — doeskins,  such  as  ne'er 
were  seen! 

Army  cloaks  and  riding-habits,  Alberts  at  a  trifling  cost ! 

Do  you  want  an  annual  contract  1  Write  to  Doudnet's 
by  the  post. 

DouDNEY  Brothers!  Doudney  brothers!  Not  the 
men  that  drive  the  van, 

Plaster'd  o'er  with  advertisements,  heralding  some  paltry 
plan. 

How,  by  base  mechanic  measure,  and  by  pinching  of 
their  backs. 

Slim  attorneys'  clerks  may  manage  to  retrieve  their 
Income-tax : 

But  the  old  established  business — where  the  best  of 
clothes  are  given 

At  the  very  lowest  prices — Fleet-street,  Number  Ninety- 
seven. 


THE   BOOK   OF    BALLADS.  105 

•  Would' st  thou  know  the  works  of  Doudnet?  Hie  thee 
to  the  thronged  Arcade, 

To, the  Park  upon  a  Sunday,  to  the  terrible  Parade. 

There,  amid  the  bayonets  bristling,  and  the  flashing  of 
the  steel, 

When  the  household  troops  in  squadrons  round  the  bold 
field-marshals  wheel, 

Should'st  thou  see  an  aged  warrior  in  a  plain  blue  morn- 
ing frock. 

Peering  at  the  proud  battalion  o'er  the  margin  of  his 
stock, — 

Should  thy  throbbing  heart  then  tell  thee,  that  the  vete- 
ran, worn  an  gray. 

Curbed  the  course  of  Bonaparte,  rolled  the  thunders  of 
Assaye — 

Let  it  tell  thee,  stranger,  likewise,  that  the  goodly  garb 
he  wears 

Started  into  shape  and  being  from  the  Doudnet  Bro- 
thers' shears ! 

Seek  thou  next  the  rooms  of  Willis — mark,  where 
D'Orsay's  Count  is  bending. 

See  the  trousers'  imdulation  from  his  graceful  hip 
descending ; 

Hath  the  earth  another  trouser  so  compact  and  love- 
compelling  1 

Thou  canst  find  it,  stranger,  only,  if  thou  seek'st  the 
DouDNEYs'  dwelling. 

Hark,  from  Windsor's  royal  palace,  what  sweet  voice 
enchants  the  ear  1 

"Goodness,  what  a  lovely  waistcoat  1  Oh,  who  made 
it,  Albert,  dear? 


196  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

T  is  the  very  prettiest  pattern !     You  must  get  a  dozen 

Others !" 
And  the  Prince,  in  rapture,  answers — "  'T  is  the  work 

of  DouDNET  Brothers  !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  197 


f  uris  ml  Milm. 

As  the  youthful  Paris  presses 

Helen  to  his  ivory  breast, 
Sporting  with  her  golden  tresses, 

Close  and  ever  closer  pressed, 

He  said  :  "  So  let  me  quaff  the  nectar, 
Which  thy  lips  of  ruby  yield  ; 

Glory  I  can  leave  to  Hector, 
Gathered  in  the  tented  field. 

"  Let  me  ever  gaze  upon  thee, 
Look  into  thine  eyes  so  deep ; 

With  a  daring  hand  I  won  thee. 
With  a  faithful  heart  I'll  keep. 

"  Oh,  my  Helen,  thou  bright  wonder, 
Who  was  ever  like  to  thee? 

Jove  would  lay  aside  his  thunder, 
So  he  might  be  blest  like  me. 


198  THE   BOOK    OF  BALLADS. 

"  How  inine  eyes  so  fondly  linger 
On  thy  soft  and  pearly  skin  ; 

Scan  each  round  and  rosy  finger, 
Drinking  draughts  of  beauty  in ! 

"  Tell  me,  whence  thy  beauty,  fairest ! 
Whence  thy  cheek's  enchanting  bloom  1 
♦  Whence  the  rosy  hue  thou  wearest, 

Breathing  round  thee  rich  perfume  ?" 

Thus  he  spoke,  with  heart  that  panted, 
Clasped  her  fondly  to  his  side, 

Gazed  on  her  with  look  enchanted, 
While  his  Helen  thus  replied : 

"  Be  no  discord,  love,  between  us. 

If  I  not  the  secret  tell ! 
*T  was  a  gift  I  had  of  Venus, — 

Venus,  who  hath  loved  me  well. 

"  And  she  told  me  as  she  gave  it, 
'  Let  not  e'er  the  charm  be  known, 

O'er  thy  person  freely  lave  it. 
Only  when  thou  art  alone.' 

"  T  is  enclosed  in  yonder  casket — 
Here  behold  its  golden  key  ; 

But  its  name — love,  do  not  ask  it, 
Tell 't,  I  may  not,  even  to  thee !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS,  19ft 

Long  with  vow  and  kiss  he  plied  her, 

Still  the  secret  did  she  keep, 
Till  at  length  he  sank  beside  her, 

Seeraed  as  he  had  dropped  to  sleep. 

Soon  was  Helen  laid  in  slumber, 

When  her  Paris,  rising  slow. 
Did  his  fair  neck  disencumber  ^ 

From  her  rounded  arms  of  snow ; 

Then  her  heedless  fingers  oping, 

Takes  the  key  and  steals  away. 
To  the  eben  table  groping, 

Where  the  wondrous  casket  lay  ; 

Eagerly  the  lid  uncloses, 

Sees  within  it,  laid  aslope, 
Pear's  Liquid  Bloom  of  Eoses, 

Cakes  of  his  Transparent  Soap  ! 


300  THE    BOOK    OF    BALI.AD8. 


long  nf  tjje  f Dtwif?. 


I  'm  weary,  and  sick,  and  disgusted 

With  Britain's  mechanical  din  ; 
Where  I  'm  much  too  well  known  to  be  trusted, 

And  plaguily  pestered  for  tin ; 
Where  love  has  two  eyes  for  your  banker, 

And  one  chilly  glance  for  yourself; 
Where  souls  can  afford  to  be  franker. 

But  when  they  're  well  garnished  with  pelf. 

I  'm  sick  of  the  whole  race  of  poets, 

Emasculate,  missy,  and  fine ; 
They  brew  their  small  beer,  and  don't  know  its 

Distinction  from  full-bodied  wine. 
I  'm  sick  of  the  prosers,  that  house  up 

At  drowsy  St.  Stephen's, — ain't  you  ? 
I  want  some  strong  spirits  to  rouse  up 

A  good  revolution  or  two ! 

I  'm  sick  of  a  land,  where  each  morrow 

Repeats  the  dull  tale  of  to-day. 
Where  you  can't  even  find  a  new  sorrow, 

To  chase  your  stale  pleasures  away. 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  201 

I  'm  sick  of  blue-stockings  horrific, 

Steam,  railroads,  gas,  scrip,  and  consols; 
So  I  '11  off  where  the  golden  Pacific 
»     Round  islands  of  paradise  rolls. 

There  the  passions  shall  revel  unfettered, 

And  the  heart  never  speak  but  in  truth, 
And  the  intellect  wholly  unlettered. 

Be  bright  with  the  freedom  of  youth ; 
There  the  earth  can  rejoice  in  her  blossoms, 

Unsullied  by  vapor  or  soot, 
And  there  chimpanzees  and  opossums 

Shall  playfully  pelt  me  with  fruit. 

There  I  '11  sit  with  my  dark  Orianas, 

In  groves  by  the  murmuring  sea. 
And  they  '11  give,  as  I  suck  the  bananas, 

Their  kisses,  nor  ask  them  fi-om  me. 
They  '11  never  torment  me  for  sonnets. 

Nor  bore  me  to  death  with  their  owi  ; 
They  '11  ask  not  for  shawls  nor  for  bonnets, 

For  milliners  there  are  unknown. 

There  my  couch  shall  be  earth's  freshest  flowers, 

My  curtains  the  night  and  the  stars. 
And  my  spirit  shall  gather  new  powers, 

Uncramped  by  conventional  bars. 
Love  for  love,  truth  for  truth  ever  giving, 

My  days  shall  be  manfully  sped ; 

I  shall  know  that  I  'm  loved  while  I  'm  living. 

And  be  wept  by  fond  eyes  when  I  'm  dead  ! 
9* 


203  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLAI>8. 


C^urnliw. 


Lightsome,  brightsome,  cousin  mine . 

Easy,  breezy  Caroline ! 
With  thy  locks  all  raven-shaded. 
From  thy  merry  brow  up-braided, 
And  thine  eyes  of  laughter  foil, 

Brightsome  cousin  mine ! 
Thou  in  chains  of  love  hast  bound  me— 
Wherefore  dost  thou  flit  around  me. 

Laughter-loving  Caroline  ? 

When  I  fain  would  go  to  sleep 

In  my  easy  chair. 
Wherefore  on  my  slumbers  creep — 
Wherefore  start  me  from  repose. 
Tickling  of  my  hooked  nose. 

Pulling  of  my  hair  ? 
Wherefore,  then,  if  thou  dost  love  me. 
So  to  words  of  anger  move  me, 

Corking  of  this  face  of  mine, 

Tricksy  cousin  Caroline ! 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  203 

When  a  sudden  sound  I  hear, 
Much  my  nervous  system  suffers, 

Shaking  through  and  through, — 
Cousin  Caroline,  I  fear, 

'T  was  no  other,  now,  but  you 
Put  gunpowder  in  the  snuffers, 

Springing  such  a  mine ! 
Yes,  it  was  your  tricksy  self, 
Wicked-tricked,  little  elf. 

Naughty  cousin  Caroline ! 

Pins  she  sticks  into  my  shoulder, 

Places  needles  in  my  chair. 
And,  when  I  begin  to  scold  her^ 

Tosses  back  her  combed  hair, 

With  so  saucy-vexed  an  air, 
That  the  pitying  beholder 
Cannot  brook  that  I  should  scold  her : 
Then  again  she  comes,  and  bolder, 

Blacks  anew  this  face  of  mine. 

Artful  cousin  Caroline ! 

Would  she  only  say  she  'd  love  me, 

Winsome  tinsome  Caroline, 
Unto  such  excess 't  would  move  me, 

Teasing,  pleasing,  cousin  mine ! 
That  she  might  the  live-long  day 
Undermine  the  snuffer  tray, 
Tickle  still  my  hooked  nose. 
Startle  me  from  calm  repose 


904  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

With  her  pretty  persecution ; 
Throw  the  tongs  against  my  shins, 
Run  me  through  and  through  with  pins, 

Like  a  pierced  cushion ; 
Would  she  only  say  she  'd  love  me. 
Darning  needles  should  not  move  me ; 
But  reclining  back,  I  'd  say, 
"  Dearest !  there  's  the  snuffer  tray ; 
Pmch,  O  pinch  those  legs  of  mine ! 

Cork  me,  cousin  Caroline !" 


THK    nnOK    or   BALLADS.  205 


FOUND   IN   MY   EMPORIUM    CF    LOVE    TOKENS. 

Sweet  flower,  that  with  thy  soft;  blue  eye 
Did'st  once  look  up  in  shady  spot, 

To  whisper  to  the  passer-by 

Those  tender  words — Forget-me-not ! 

Though  withered  now,  thou  art  to  me 
The  minister  of  gentle  thought, — 

And  I  could  weep  to  gaze  on  thee, 
Love's  faded  pledge — Forget-me-not ! 

Thou  speak'st  of  hours  when  I  was  young. 

And  happiness  arose  unsought. 
When  she,  the  whispering  woods  among, 

Gave  me  thy  bloom — Forget-me-not ! 

What  rapturous  hour  with  that  dear  maid 
From  memory's  page  no  time  shall  blot. 

When,  yielding  to  my  kiss,  she  said, 
"  Oh,  Theodore — Forget-me-not !" 


209  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Alas,  for  love  !  alas,  for  truth  ! 

Alas  for  man's  uncertain  lot ! 
Alas  for  all  the  hopes  of  youth 

That  fade  like  thee — Forget-me-not ! 

Alas !  for  that  one  image  fair, 

With  all  my  brightest  dreams  inwrought ! 
That  walks  beside  me  everywhere, 

Still  whispering — Forget-me-not ! 

Oh,  memory !  thou  art  but  a  sigh 

For  friendships  dead  and  loves  forgot ; 

And  many  a  cold  and  altered  eye, 
That  once  did  say — Forget-me-not ! 

And  I  must  bow  me  to  thy  laws, 

For — odd  although  it  may  be  thought — 

I  can't  tell  who  the  deuce  it  was 
That  gave  me  this  Forget-me-not ! 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  207 


€\it  ®isjia|i. 


'*  Why  art  thou  weeping,  sister  ? 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  pale  ? 
Look  up,  dear  Jane,  and  tell  me 

What  is  it  thou  dost  ail  1 

"  I  know  thy  will  is  froward, 
Thy  feelings  warm  and  keen, 

And  that  that  Augustus  Howard 
For  weeks  has  not  been  seen. 

"  I  know  how  much  you  loved  him  ; 

But  I  know  thou  dost  not  weep 
For  him  ; — for  though  his  passion  be, 

His  purse  is  noways  deep. 

"  Then  tell  me  why  those  teardrops ; 

What  means  this  woful  mood  ? 
Say,  has  the  tax-collector 

Been  calling,  and  been  rude? 


208  THE   BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  Or  has  that  hateful  grocer, 
The  slave  !  been  here  to-day  ? 

Of  course  he  had,  by  morrow's  noon, 
A  heavy  bill  to  pay  ! 

"  Come,  on  thy  brother's  bosom 

Unburden  all  thy  woes ; 
Look  up,  look  up,  sweet  sister ; 

There,  dearest,  blow  your  nose." 

"  Oh,  John,  't  is  not  the  grocer. 

For  his  account ;  although 
How  ever  he  is  to  be  paid, 

I  really  do  not  know. 

"  'T  is  not  the  tax-collector ; 

Though  by  his  fell  command, 
They  've  seized  our  old  paternal  oL<;k, 

And  new  umbrella-stand  : 

"  Nor  that  Augustus  Howard, 

Whom  I  despise  almost, — 
But  the  soot's  come  down  the  chimney.  John, 

And  fairly  spoiled  the  roast !" 


THE   BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  209 


Cnmfart  in  ^Hiirtinn. 


"  Wherefoeb  starts  my  bosom's  lord  1 
Why  this  anguish  in  thine  eye  ? 

Oh,  it  seems  as  thy  heart's  chord 
Had  broken  with  that  sign  . 

"  Rest  thee,  my  dear  lord,  I  praj. 
Rest  thee  on  my  bosom  now  ! 

And  let  me  wipe  the  dews  away, 
Are  gathering  on  thy  brow. 

"  There,  again  !  that  fevered  start ! 

What,  love !  husband  !  is  thy  pain  1 
There  is  a  sorrow  on  thy  heart, 

A  weight  upon  thy  brain ! 

•'  Nay,  nay,  that  sickly  smile  can  ne'er 
Deceive  affection's  searching  eye  ; 

'T  is  a  wife's  duty,  love,  to  share 
Her  husband's  agony. 


210  THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

"  Sirce  the  dawn  began  to  peep, 
Have  I  lain  with  stifled  breath ; 

Heard  thee  moaning  in  thy  sleep, 
As  thou  wert  at  grips  with  death. 

"  Oh,  what  joy  it  was  to  see 

My  gentle  lord  once  more  awake ! 

Tell  me,  what  is  amiss  with  thee  ? 
SpeaK,  or  my  heart  will  break  !" 

"  Mary,  thou  angel  of  my  life. 
Thou  ever  good  and  kind ; 

'T  is  not,  believe  me,  my  dear  wife. 
The  anguish  of  the  mind ! 

"  It  is  not  in  my  bosom  dear, 
No,  nor  my  brain,  in  sooth ; 

But  Mary,  oh,  I  feel  it  here, 
Here  in  my  wisdom  tooth ! 

"  Then  give, — oh,  first,  best  antidote,- 
Sweet  partner  of  my  bed ! 

Give  me  thy  flannel  petticoat 
To  wrap  around  my  head  !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS.  211' 


€^  Sniniriitinii. 


"  Brother,  thou  art  very  weary, 

And  thine  eye  is  sunk  and  dim. 
And  thy  neckcloth's  tie  is  crumpled. 

And  thy  collar  out  of  trim  ; 
There  is  dust  upon  thy  visage, — 

Think  not  Charles  I  would  hurt  ye, 
When  I  say,  that  altogether, 

You  appear  extremely  dirty. 

"  Frown  not,  brother,  now,  but  hie  thee 

To  thy  chamber's  distant  room ; 
Drown  the  odors  of  the  ledger 

With  the  lavender's  perfume. 
■  Brush  the  mud  from  off  thy  trowsers, 

O'er  the  china  basin  kneel, 
Lave  thy  brows  in  water  softened 

With  the  soap  of  Old  Castile. 

"  Smooth  the  locks  that  o'er  thy  forehead 
Now  in  loose  disorder  stray  ; 

Pare  thy  nails,  and  from  thy  whiskers 
Cut  those  ragged  points  away. 


212  THK    BOOK    OF    BALLADS. 

Let  no  more  thy  calculations 
Thy  bewildered  brain  beset ; 

Life  has  other  hopes  than  Cocker's, 
Other  joys  than  tare  and  tret. 

"  Haste  thee,  for  I  ordered  dinner, 

Waiting  to  the  very  last, 
Twenty  minutes  after  seven. 

And  't  is  now  the  quarter  past. 
'T  is  a  dinner  which  Luculhis 

Would  have  wept  with  joy  to  see, 
One,  might  wake  the  soul  of  Curtis 

From  Death's  drowsy  atrophy. 

"  There  is  soup  of  real  turtle, 

Turbot,  and  the  dainty  sole ; 
And  the  mottled  roe  of  lobsters 

Blushes  through  the  butter  bowl. 
There  the  lordly  haunch  of  mutton, 

Tender  as  the  mountain  grass. 
Waits  to  mix  its  ruddy  juices 

With  the  girdling  caper-sauce. 

"  There  a  stag,  whose  branching  forehead 

Spoke  him  monarch  of  the  herds, 
He  whose  flight  was  o'er  the  heather. 

Swift  as  through  the  air  the  bird's, 
^  Yields  for  thee  a  dish  of  cutlets  ; 

And  the  haunch  that  wont  to  dash 
O'er  the  roaring  mountain  torrent, 

Smokes  in  most  delicious  hash. 


THE   BOOK    OP    BALLADS.  218 

"  There,  besides,  are  amber  jellies 

Floating  like  a  golden  dream ; 
Ginger  from  the  far  Bermudas 

Dishes  of  Italian  cream ; 
And  a  princely  apple-dumpling, 

Which  my  own  fair  fingers  wrought, 
Shall  unfold  its  nectared  treasures 

To  thy  lips  all  smoking  hot. 

"  Ha !  I  see  thy  brow  is  clearing, 

Lustre  flashes  from  thine  eyes ; 
To  thy  lips  I  see  the  moisture 

Of  anticipation  rise. 
Hark !  the  dinner  bell  is  sounding !" 

"  Only  wait  one  moment,  Jane  : 
I'll  be  dressed,  and  down,  before  you 

Can  get  up  the  iced  champagne !" 


THE    BOOK    OF    BALLADS, 


Come  hither,  my  heart's  darling, 

Come,  sit  upon  my  knee. 
And  listen,  while  I  whisper 

A  boon  I  ask  of  thee. 
You  need  not  pull  my  whiskers 

So  amorously,  my  dove ; 
'T  is  something  quite  apart  from 

Tlie  gentle  cares  of  love. 

I  feel  a  bitter  craving — 

A  dark  and  deep  desire. 
That  glows  beneath  my  bosom 

Like  coals  of  kindled  fire. 
The  passion  of  the  nightingale, 

When  singing  to  the  rose, 
Is  feebler  than  the  agony 

That  murders  my  repose ! 

Nay,  dearest !  do  not  doubt  me. 
Though  madly  thus  I  speak — 

I  feel  thy  arms  about  me. 
Thy  tresses  on  my  cheek  : 


THE    BOOK    OF   BALLADS.  215 

I  know  the  sweet  devotion 

That  links  thy  heart  with  mine, — 

I  know  my  soul's  emotion 
Is  doubly  felt  by  thine : 

And  deem  not  that  a  shadow 

Hath  fallen  across  my  love : 
No,  sweet,  my  love  is  shadowless, 

As  yonder  heaven  above. 
These  little  taper  fingers — 

Ah,  Jane !  how  white  they  be ! — 
Can  well  supply  the  cruel  want 

That  almost  maddens  me. 

Thou  wilt  not  sure  deny  me 

My  first  and  fond  request ; 
I  pray  thee,  by  the  memory 

Of  all  we  cherish  best — 
By  all  the  dear  remembrance 

Of  those  delicious  days, 
When,  hand  in  hand,  we  wandered 

Along  the  summer  braes : 

By  all  we  felt,  unspoken, 

When  'neath  the  early  moon. 
We  sat  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June  ; 
And  by  the  broken  whisper 

That  fell  upon  my  ear, 
More  sweet  than  angel-music, 

When  first  I  woo'd  thee,  dear! 


^'W^S^; 


r^if.  M 


,  ..<^'ii,^.i^^;.' 


